#each time bucky felt lost or abandoned

[th30ra3k3n]

i only

know how

to exist

when

i’m

wanted.

(mary lambert)

[bulkyphrase]

Marvel Halloween Rec Week 2024 - Stucky Monday

Happy almost Halloween! I'll be doing rec lists all week, starting with my favorite spooky Stucky fics I've read this year.

Reliquary by afearsomecritter (Stucky, Mature, 2,695 words)

Summary: There was a ghost in the room.   The Soldier was fairly certain that it was the only one who could see it.

Are You Aware, Wolf? by leveragehunters (@leveragehunters) (Stucky, Teen And Up Audiences, 12,068 words)

Summary: Bucky's life was saved because he picked up the tab for a cup of coffee. He'd heard of people getting rewarded for good deeds, but that seemed way out of proportion. Sure, the life-saving came with a side order of being a werewolf, but since that was way better than being dead, he figured he could deal. Of course, that was before he learned about the vampires...

More below the cut!

Black Dog by leveragehunters (@leveragehunters) (Teen And Up Audiences, 55,340 words, No Archive Warnings Apply)

Summary: So long ago the details were lost to time, people began creating guardians of the dead. They were made from dogs, dogs who were buried in graveyards before anyone was laid to rest, their spirits arising as black dogs, bound protectors of the human dead. Steve had always wondered what would happen after he died. He hadn't expected the answer to be 'wake up in the cemetery he'd been buried in', but here he was, some kind of ghost, and he could see the trees through his hands. It wasn't so bad, and he wasn't alone—a sleek black dog, golden eyes glowing bright, was happily waiting to greet him. Decades later, on what was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful, definitely-not-life-changing walk through the woods, Bucky stumbled across an abandoned cemetery and into the impossible. (It's a ghost story and a love story and a story about dogs.) Also available as a podfic read by attolia (@untowardsnark)

Werewolves in the Workplace by leveragehunters (@leveragehunters) (Stucky, Teen And Up Audiences, 45,109 words)

Summary: SHIELD was the only intelligence agency that assigned werewolf and vampire agents to work together in the field, but the program had been a staggering success. They compensated each other’s weaknesses, complemented each other’s strengths, and a werewolf could feed a vampire and shake off the effects faster than ordering a pizza. Bucky knew all that. What he didn't know was why this particular vampire, one Agent Steve Rogers, was holding out a protein bar. They were perched in the rafters of a warehouse, waiting for not-overly punctual arms dealers to show up and deal arms, had been stuck up here for a couple of hours, but none of that explained vampires suddenly offering snacks. In his near decade as a werewolf in SHIELD, Bucky had worked with a lot of vampires, and they all tended to be pretty much the same. Steve Rogers was different, didn't fit the vampire mould, and Bucky couldn't quite figure out why. Not that it really mattered. Steve was just someone he was occasionally paired with on SHIELD assignments. It wasn't like he was going to have any effect on Bucky's life.

Things That Are True by PottersPink (@potterspink) (Stucky, Mature, 5,405 words)

Summary: You think about how you haven't ever felt so alive for being dead.

Ghost of You by redsteele (@shrinkyclink) (Stucky, Mature, 20,013 words)

Summary: Bucky’s job was far from monotonous, but between his last mission being a complete bust and being taken off rotation for field work, he found himself with a lot more free time and little to do with it. But when strange events started to happen at SHIELD, he stumbled onto a conspiracy that could tear his whole world apart. Who was the man in the hospital gown that kept appearing out of nowhere? What was Shield hiding? And most importantly, who is Steve Rogers?

Sunshine in an empty place by seratonation (Stucky, General Audiences, 962 words)

Summary: They went for walks sometimes, but they never talk anymore. Not like they used to. Something was wrong with Steve and Bucky couldn’t figure out what it was.

If You Ever Did Believe by wearing_tearing (Stucky, Mature, 33,192 words)

Summary: Bucky Barnes will never die of a broken heart. The spell he cast at thirteen, in between white petals and whispered words of magic, makes sure of that. But then Bucky murders someone, conspires with his sister to hide the body, and meets Steve Rogers.

[angelbaby-fics]

Don't Bite

Word Count: 850

Warnings: Slight injury to the reader! Lots of comfort and fluff though of course!!

A/N: Aww this one's kinda similar to one I did for the tea party event but I've actually had this concept in my notes app for like 6 months! Hopefully posting this finally works & I hope you guys enjoy!! ❤️

It started off as a peaceful morning. Steve was in the kitchen, his turn to clean up after breakfast, and Bucky was starting up a load of laundry down the hall. You were splayed across the couch, watching cartoons and digesting your pancakes when Alpine sauntered over to the sofa and leapt up next to you. The cat took a big yawn before curling up halfway on your chest, purring and nuzzling you as you pet her silky white fur. Lost in the dancing colors on the tv screen, you aimlessly scratched behind her ears, down her back, across the length of her tail.

Too far!

In a flash of white, Alpine whipped her body around to face your offending hand and let off a warning hiss! Your precious pet suddenly transformed into a vicious predator, baring her fangs at you with fire in her eyes. Out of shock, you pulled your hand away, some of the fur still entwined within your fingers, and when you yanked back, Alpine sunk her teeth into your arm out of self defense. It wasn't too hard, just meant to admonish you like she would her own kitten, but her teeth were sharp enough to break your skin, and the sight of blood was enough to make you start screaming. 

Naturally, Steve and Bucky were abandoning their respective chores rushing to your side to comfort you in no time. Alpine had fled the scene at the sound of your screams, so it wasn't immediately apparent to them what was wrong; all they saw was their baby, distressed and injured. Hearts racing, they each tried in their own way to figure out what the problem was and solve it. Steve dried your tears, carefully petting your head and whispering words of comfort to you while Bucky protectively wrapped an arm around you, jaw clenched with stress as he scanned the room for what hurt you. 

When they were both certain the coast was clear, they moved you to the bathroom, Bucky holding you firmly against his chest. He kept you in his arms as he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, pulling your legs up onto his lap as Steve rummaged through the cupboard for the family's first aid kit. He emerged with a clear tub, which he set on the bathroom counter and opened and began unpacking. Your arms were wrapped around Bucky's neck, and he felt you grip onto his t-shirt once you saw Steve pull out the bottle of antiseptic. 

"Nonononono," you mumbled into Bucky's shoulder, "no more ouchies please!"

He tightened his arms around you, soothingly rubbing your back. Both your daddies' hearts broke at your pleas. 

"I know, babydoll. It's just gonna last a second, okay?" Steve tried to reassure you, but your tears were starting up again.

"Shhh.... You're safe baby, it's okay," Bucky whispered into your ear. 

He reached up to untangle your injured hand from his shirt. Holding it softly in his right hand, he slowly brought your arm down from his neck and held it out towards Steve, who was looking at you with eyes like warm oceans. You met his gaze and nodded slightly before turning your face back into Bucky's chest, bracing yourself for the sting of the antiseptic. Maybe it was the gentleness that Steve applied the cotton on your skin, or maybe it was the hold Bucky had around you keeping you safe, but it didn't hurt nearly as badly as you thought it would. Next thing you knew, you were emerging from you Bucky cocoon to see Steve presenting you with multiple boxes of bandaids. 

"Alright, angel, you get to pick whichever kind you want!"

You looked between the boxes, some with cartoon characters, some with animals or flowers or rainbows or stars. You pointed towards your favorite, and Steve got to unwrapping it, kneeling down to your level to softly and sweetly stick the bandaid to your skin. Then he started clapping. 

"All done, baby! You did such a good job!" Steve cheered for you, smile beaming, but your eyes were drawn to something else.

Curious about her family all gathering in one room, Alpine was peering around the doorway of the bathroom. Usually she would bound right in, weaving herself between Bucky's legs or trying to get another treat out of Steve, but now she was unusually reserved. It was as if she knew that all this commotion, all this distress was because of her. Bucky leaned over to see where you were looking, Steve turned around, and instantly they solved the puzzle of what had happened to you. 

"Oh baby, did Alpine get you?"

You nodded, and whispered "Piney bite."

With a steely look, Steve walked over to the cat, bending down to look her in the eyes, and he shook a stern finger at her.

"Alpine, we don't bite our friends, do you understand?" He asked her, which made you start giggling; music to your daddies' ears.

"Its okay, Piney, I forgive you!"

And once again, it seemed like she understood, because with a little trill, she was trotting over to you, pressing her face up against you and starting to purr.

[p3sephone]

Behave. (Dark! Natasha Romanoff and Dark! Bucky Barnes)

Summary: you have a beautiful and loving relationship with Natasha Romanoff, and everything is so perfect. Until everything falls apart, and by the time you want to leave, Natasha is not your only problem. Another soldier is.

Warnings: violence, toxic relationship, misoginy, stalking, anxiety and implied future non-con. If you do not like these themes or you’re a minor, please DO NOT read this since it’s only 18+. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror, knowing what this evening would be like probably the last time you would see the red haired avenger. In the beginning everything was splendid, it was fabulous. She gave you so much attention and you took every bit of it. You felt like she made you special, like you were nothing without her.

And then you realized that she actually wasn't that nice of a person. You had always been a loner, you had a very small inner circle of friends and every single one of them did nothing but blather on about red flags.

Yet you didn't see any, you never saw them in all the time you dated Nat, and in the end you didn't even see your friends anymore. Until a few weeks ago. So you decided to investigate and understand really because they had turned their backs on you: unfortunately in your circle it had already happened that someone had away from friends for a pretty face, but no one had ever turned their back on the other.

It was one of the first rules of your group, you don't abandon each other. And that person doesn't like you she abandoned you, even when you spat poison on her with all the mean things she said to you about Natasha. You thought that she was right, that they were just envious, they wanted nothing more than to isolate you so they could drag you into their own misery. But then you also had the evidence.

Threatening messages and stalking photos. They didn't leave because they hated you, but because of theirs own safety and because you couldn't see that they were right.

It was like everything fell apart, and instead of all that part you were studying at home, you lost contro. That day, even if that friend turned her back on you and left wishing you good luck, you couldn't get her gaze out of your head. Behind her anger and disappointment there was still fear. What had Natasha been doing all these months, besides what she had told you and sworn? You had realized that you couldn't trust her, yet you still loved her so much. You had truly sacrificed too much for her to leave everything, so that same night you went to her apartment and spoke your own mind. Every single bit of it.

She thought it was one of your many romantic surprises, where you brought her flowers that drove her crazy and maybe you would have spent a few hours with a film and some cuddles. Instead she found you again at the threshold of the door with a determined and cold look, and then Natasha had already understood.

Someone had spoken, but she promised herself that she would find out later. You had started asking her so many questions, and the more you asked them the more you saw her eyebrows furrow and you felt the her tone of voice getting harder and harder. She wanted nothing more than you, alone, without any friends and at her mercy.

She wanted you for herself, without someone filling your head with bullshit about her like being with her wasn't not at all sure, how she would have completely canceled you out and turned you into a trophy to carry around and use when she wanted.

Now that you thought about it, that's exactly what happened to her, and you didn't even realize it. That night was there before when a drastic argument began, where you realized which person you were next to. If you knew it was even worse, you would definitely have run away. Actually, around 1 in the morning you've decided you had enough of her voice and her face. Without a single word you tried to leave, only to feel a strong grip on your arm.

You protested, and in response you found yourself directly against the wall. Your nose started to bleed and Natasha came again for you, without even giving you time to breathe, only to twist your arm again. You almost felt your bone shattering from the grip of her hand and despite your pleas and your fear, she did nothing but look into your eyes. You did the same, only to see a dead, unreadable look.

It was even worse than anger, hatred, or anything else I had ever seen from her. And this made you terrified.

"I don't care what you think, what you do, or who you talk to. I don't care how much you fill your head with everything this bullshit about freedom in a relationship, red flags and all. You're not leaving me, and that's final."

You were about to protest, so Natasha only twisted her arm further, making you squeal from pain.

"No, I don't think you understand, you have no say in the matter. You don't leave me, I don't leave you. I chose you, we will be together and as time passes I will change this insolent attitude of yours. You don't believe I gave enough freedom? Hmm? Who the heck would let you go out until two in the morning with your friends, not to mention how questionable they are."

You groaned at the way she talked about your friends. They were just women of today's times, nothing special more and nothing less. Natasha didn't seem to understand this though. In her eyes, you were property and an obstacle to them. From the moment you started this relationship you were solely and exclusively hers, so deprives you of any freedom or rights. You were hers to have, to care for, to show the rest of the world to hers side and not an inch ahead.

You started sobbing in pain and begging for her to let you go. In response he showed you a brief smile, she loosened her grip just enough so you wouldn't die of pain and finally she gave you a kiss on your forehead covered in cold sweat.

"You will learn love, you will learn. Actually, I brought someone who could help me in this situation… you know, he's more experienced than me being a little older. I am sure that with him you will be able to learn even better hun. Who knows, maybe one day we can even have a beautiful family together." She started giggling sweetly, as if the two of you were again at the favorite restaurant where you met at flirting and getting to know each other like little girls.

The front door opened, revealing first an entire vibranium arm and then another of the avengers, as well as one of those you hoped you would never meet. Bucky Barnes. He gave you a short smile, admiring you from top to bottom. Every little detail of your body had been studied by him and memorized, and he was happy to see you awake, instead of drugged in Natasha's bed. Nice memories for him, but it was time to upgrade.

"Family, huh? Maybe it would make her mature. A baby would keep her incredibly busy, you know." his footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor and your sobs only got louder, you had started to again fight to no avail and Natasha had pinned both of her arms. All those movements stopped the moment Bucky forcefully grabbed your neck with his real hand, forcing you to look him in the eyes. They were much darker and almost devoured you.

"Stop being such a little girl and behave, or I'll give you something you can cry about."

That warning was enough to drastically reduce your sobs, although some still did it escaped because of the anxiety and panic that racked your body. It was over for you. He smiled at your easy surrender and Natasha understood at that precise moment that she had had a wonderful idea in introducing you to Bucky, without you knowing. The poor man had fallen in love with you from the first moment and Natasha had noticed, so they had a brief conversation: sharing, on one condition. They were both on the same page, both of them would have your unconditional affection. Natasha only had problems controlling you with all those ideas about personal freedom, feminism and that constant going dancing with your friends. It got on her nerves, but she didn't want to push you away, she needed one much stronger and firmer hand. And he would have been perfect, after all he was born in the golden years for men like him. Bucky would definitely figure out how to raise you into their beautiful, loving companion.

For the life.

"Good darling, now let's start thinking. Now Natasha will go take care of your dear friend, and us, we're going to do a little bit of getting to know each other so you really understand the rules here. Is it okay love?" he planted a kiss on your lips, loosening his grip a little at your submissive demeanor. You just could cry at the thought of what they would do to your friend, and to you.

[sebstanaddict]

Midnight and The Light

Vampire!Bucky x Reader Story

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is a vampire detective working for the London police to cover up murders done by his own people. One day his world turns upside down when a female detective is assigned to work with him.

James and reader are running away from the hunt of his leader, Draven, when they run into vampire hunters. When reader managed to kill one, the act traumatized her deeply, sending her into a panic attack and James is forced to do something to calm her down.

Warning : violence and murder depiction

Word count : 2.5k

Chapters : 4/10 (May add more)

Chapter list >

---

As they left the sprawling streets of London behind, the landscape around them slowly transformed. The dense cityscape gave way to the wild, rolling English countryside. Dark clouds loomed above, stretching like shadows over the fields, with the occasional patch of moonlight casting an eerie silver glow on the farmlands and forests they passed.

The road wound through ancient villages and sleepy hamlets, their stone cottages huddled together as if to ward off the night. Every so often, they would pass a centuries-old church or an abandoned manor, its silhouette stark against the sky, giving the countryside an unsettling, almost haunted beauty. An endless silence accompanied them, broken only by the hum of the car engine and the distant rustle of leaves as the wind swept through the trees.

The weight of their escape, paired with the bleakness of the scenery, hung heavy between them. Every flicker in the shadows felt like a pair of eyes watching, a hunter's presence close behind. The moon sat low and full above the trees, casting long, ghostly shadows on the road.

Inside the car, Y/n kept her gaze fixed outside, taking in the scenery but feeling the tension rise as the darkness deepened. She wrapped her arms around herself, and though she knew James was sitting right beside her, the silence between them only added to the strange emptiness she felt. She had so many questions, but the words seemed to escape her every time she tried to speak.

After a while, James glanced at her, breaking the quiet. "It feels different, doesn't it?" he said softly, his voice nearly blending with the murmur of the tires on the gravel road.

Y/n turned to him, meeting his eyes briefly. "Everything looks... different. It feels heavier somehow. Like there's something in the air I can't place."

He nodded, a hint of understanding in his gaze. "The supernatural has a way of altering the world around it. Places that have seen enough magic or violence take on a life of their own. You'll start noticing these things more as you become more aware of the world we live in."

The words stirred something in her—a thrill mixed with unease. She could feel herself drifting farther from the life she once knew, and as they drove deeper into the countryside, it felt like they were leaving behind any semblance of safety.

They fell into silence again, each lost in thought, as the landscape continued to shift. The narrow road led them past dense patches of forest and sprawling fields framed by stone walls, the occasional signpost pointing toward long-forgotten destinations. The weight of the journey settled over them like a shroud, making the miles feel both timeless and endless.

Hours passed, and finally, the dim glow of a rest area appeared ahead—a lone island of light in the dark expanse. As they pulled into the lot, the rest area seemed almost deserted, save for a few shadowy figures scattered near the entrance. Y/n's gaze lingered on them, feeling the piercing eyes of strangers upon her.

They parked, stepping out into the cold night air. James gave her a nod as she headed toward the restroom, his posture tense as he scanned the area. She could tell he was on edge, just as she was, and as she walked away, the feeling of vulnerability only deepened.

The restroom was dim, sterile, and cold. She'd barely turned to leave when she noticed a movement—a man, barely a shadow in the flickering lights, rushed toward her. She gasped, stumbling back as he closed in, his grip on her arm iron-strong.

"Filthy leech," he spat, shoving her back against the sink. Panic surged as she struggled against him, heart pounding wildly.

"Get off her." James's voice was a sharp command behind them, and in one swift motion, he threw the man back against the wall with a sickening crack. James grabbed her hand and led her out the restroom's back exit.

They stepped into the cold night air, but Y/n's relief was short-lived. Figures emerged, creeping out from the dark, silent and lethal as they encircled them. Six hunters, all armed. Y/n felt her breath hitch, panic clawing up her throat.

James's tone was a hard whisper. "Stay close. Hunters—they know vampires on sight, smell, movement. We're like a beacon to them."

A hunter sneered. "Think you could hide, leeches?"

She felt a surge of rage and fear, her heart hammering as her muscles coiled, ready to defend herself. A hunter rushed her, and she dodged, barely conscious of her own speed, her fists striking out on instinct. Her hand slammed into his chest, sending him back a step. Before she could process it, another lunged forward, blade in hand, and she caught his wrist. Their strength matched as she shoved him back, only for him to charge again.

Something in her snapped. An instinct, a raw, furious power surged. She swung with all her might, her hand connecting with his chest in a violent blow. She felt the snap of bone under her fist, and he dropped instantly, crumpling lifeless at her feet.

The world slowed as she stared down, her breath catching. He was dead. Her chest tightened, and her heart pounded as she looked at her hands, the limp form on the ground. Her vision tunneled, horror filling her.

"I... I killed him," she whispered, voice barely audible, her body shaking as the weight of what she'd done sank in.

The remaining hunters moved in, but James acted quickly, dispatching them with cold precision. His movements were swift, controlled, as if his own emotions were locked away in a place she couldn't reach. She was numb, unable to move, the image of the hunter's empty, staring eyes etched in her mind.

"Y/n!" James's voice broke through, sharp with urgency as he took her hand, pulling her toward the car. She stumbled, legs barely obeying as he ushered her inside, his grip firm. She clutched her knees, breaths shallow and erratic, her heart racing out of control.

James sped from the rest area, his gaze flicking toward her, concern etched into his face. Her chest tightened, hands trembling as the weight of what she'd done crushed her.

"Look at me," he said softly, pulling over at the side of the road. He turned to her, reaching for her hands, grounding her in his steady grip. "Breathe. You're safe."

"I... I didn't mean to," she stammered, voice barely a whisper. "I didn't want to..."

James's grip tightened slightly, his eyes calm but filled with understanding. "Hunters like them—they wouldn't hesitate to kill us. They live for this. You did what you had to."

She could hardly speak, the memory of the hunter's lifeless body heavy in her mind, pressing down on her chest. "But I killed him, I felt it, James... please, I don't think I can do this. Just take me back to London."

James' expression softened when he saw the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. "Y/n, it's too dangerous to go back now. They know what you are—they'd find you no matter where you tried to hide."

Her breathing grew shallow, the reality of it closing in on her. "I don't care. I just... I just want my life back," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "I didn't ask for any of this. I don't want any of this."

"Y/n, look at me," he said firmly. But she was too far gone, her chest rising and falling in quick, erratic breaths, her hands gripping the seat so tightly her knuckles were white.

"Please, James... please take me back." Her voice was almost a sob, and hearing it hit him harder than he'd expected. "I just want everything to be normal again..."

"Hey..." he murmured, leaning over. He brushed a hand along her shoulder, gently, but her anxiety only seemed to build, her face turned away, trying to hold back tears.

"Y/n," he said, a note of urgency in his voice. "It's okay... I'm here. You're safe with me."

But nothing seemed to reach her, her fear too strong, her breaths too shallow. Desperate to break through the wall of panic, he moved closer, tilting her chin toward him. And without another thought but only guided by instinct, he pressed his lips to hers, letting the kiss do what words couldn't.

The kiss was firm yet gentle, grounding her in an instant. At first, she stiffened, surprised by the unexpectedness of it. But as the seconds passed, the panic ebbed, her breathing evening out as she became aware of his warmth, his hand steady against her cheek.

He pulled back, watching her closely, his thumb tracing her cheek as he murmured, "I won't let anything happen to you. Not now, not ever."

She took in a shaky breath, and for the first time since the attack, she met his gaze fully. "James..." Her voice was barely a whisper, her eyes still wide with the rawness of the moment.

He gave her a small, reassuring smile, his voice soft. "I'm right here, okay? And I'm not going anywhere."

A tiny, hesitant smile broke through her fear as she nodded, finally feeling a sliver of calm settle over her.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low, his gaze intense but concerned.

Y/n nodded slowly, her fingers brushing over her lips, still feeling the lingering warmth there. "Yeah... better," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

A hint of relief softened his features, but an awkward silence settled over them as they looked at each other, neither quite sure what to say.

"Sorry," he muttered, pulling back slightly, looking embarrassed. "I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"It... it's okay," she replied, her heart still pounding, though now for a very different reason. "I... appreciate it." She glanced away, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "It worked."

James nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth as well, though he quickly masked it. "Good," he said, starting the engine again, his voice a little gruffer than usual. "Because we're still a long way from Whitby."

As they merged back onto the road, Y/n stole a quick glance at him, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in her chest. The panic had subsided, but the memory of the kiss lingered, sparking something new between them, something she hadn't anticipated.

As they drove through the winding, empty roads toward Whitby, Y/n's mind still reeled from the attack at the rest area. The image of the dead hunter haunted her despite the distraction from his kiss, and a gnawing fear settled in her chest. After a long stretch of silence, she broke it with a hesitant question.

"Who... who are these hunters exactly?" she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Why are they after us?"

James's gaze was fixed on the road, but he cast her a sideways glance. "Hunters are a group that's existed for centuries. Some of them come from families that pass down the mission, generation after generation. They believe it's their duty to rid the world of anything supernatural, especially vampires."

"Have they... always been around?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

He nodded. "They've hunted us since the first vampires walked the earth. And they're relentless. It's more than just a job to them—it's a belief, a purpose. They see us as abominations."

She swallowed, staring out the window as the rolling hills blurred past. "How... how do they know who's a vampire and who isn't?"

"Hunters train to spot us by our movements, our habits. Vampires have a... certain aura that they can sense. Some hunters develop heightened senses or even magic, though rare. They learn to pick up on subtle things, things we often don't realize we're doing."

"Like what?" Y/n asked, glancing over at him.

"Well," he started, a small smile tugging at his lips, "there are little things. Vampires tend to move with a certain grace—an unnatural fluidity. Even our posture can give us away, a certain stillness in the way we stand. It sounds subtle, but trained hunters notice."

She listened, fascinated despite herself. "I didn't know it was that... precise."

"It's one of the reasons why, in places like London, we have to be even more cautious. The hunters there are used to blending in, watching for us in crowds."

She let out a shaky breath, absorbing everything he said. "But... there are others too, right? I mean, other beings... I've heard stories about werewolves and faeries."

James's expression softened as he nodded. "Yes, they exist too. Werewolves, faeries, witches, and a few others—all different communities. Most stay hidden, some in remote areas, others right under humans' noses, blending in with ordinary lives."

"Have you met them? Other... beings, I mean?"

He chuckled. "I have. Werewolves, mostly. They're territorial, and they have a deep bond with nature. They're a lot like us in some ways—strong, secretive, and fiercely loyal to their packs. But they're also... well, a bit more volatile."

She raised an eyebrow. "More volatile than vampires?"

"Maybe that's unfair," he admitted with a small grin. "They have a closer tie to their emotions. It's the animal instinct, the connection to the moon. But werewolves can be allies, especially when it's in their interest."

Y/n found herself leaning closer, captivated. "And faeries? What are they like?"

He looked thoughtful, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Faeries are... hard to describe. They're beautiful, ethereal, but they have a darkness to them too. They're fiercely protective of their realm, and they're notorious tricksters. It's easy to fall under their charm, and they know it."

"So they can't be trusted?" she asked, a mixture of fascination and apprehension in her tone.

"Not exactly. Some faeries are helpful—wise, even. But their help usually comes with a price. They have their own rules and rarely care about what happens to us. They consider themselves superior, especially compared to vampires and humans."

She shivered, picturing the eerie beauty he described. "It sounds like there's this whole world hidden in plain sight."

"There is," he agreed, his tone somber. "But it's not like a secret society with a membership card. It's more... fractured. Vampires keep to themselves, mostly. Werewolves are hidden in their packs, and faeries in their realms. Hunters target any supernatural creature, though vampires are their main focus."

Y/n gazed out the window, trying to picture the world James described—a world of ancient power and deadly alliances, existing right alongside her own. She had always thought of the supernatural as the stuff of myths and stories. Yet here she was, part of that world now, bound by blood and by powers she didn't fully understand.

"Does it ever... get easier?" she asked quietly.

James looked over at her, his expression softening. "It does. The world changes, but you adapt. And you're not alone in this, Y/n. I'll help you learn, to control what you can do. You'll be stronger for it."

They fell into silence, his words lingering in her mind, filling her with a tentative sense of hope.

The night turned into the pale light of dawn as they finally reached Whitby. Y/n's heart twisted with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness as they pulled onto a familiar street lined with quaint stone houses. It had been years since she'd been back here.

James parked in front of a modest house with ivy crawling up its walls, the morning light casting a soft glow over its edges. Y/n took a deep breath, steadying herself as she looked at the house that held her childhood memories.

"Ready?" James asked, watching her carefully.

"Not really," she admitted with a small, nervous smile. "But... let's do this."

He gave her a reassuring nod, his hand resting briefly on hers. Together, they stepped out of the car and walked up to the door, ready to face whatever answers—or new mysteries—awaited them.

[artficlly]

lady of the ghosts [chapter 7]

After a great plague ravages your city, you are looking to marry to secure safety for your people. With a war finally ending, the nearby kingdoms are looking to celebrate. King James "Bucky" Barnes decides to continue his family's tradition of hosting a courting season. A medieval courting marvel AU.

Pairing: king!bucky x lady!reader

Warnings: ANIMAL SACRIFICE, BLOOD RITUAL/MAGIC, description dead body, anxiety, doubt, funeral, cremation, mentions of sexism, angst, tension, miscommunication, mention of war, mention of plague, general assholery, bitta fluff at the end, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 7.8k (eek)

A/N: me saying i want to write shorter chapters and then this happens? whoops. anyway i had a lot of ground to cover, sorry that this is rather plot/world building heavy. we are getting into the heavy romance stuff in the next couple chapters. the funeral scene has been living rent free in my mind for MONTHS so i was excited to finally write it (very midsommar core) please let me know what you think and rebblog/like! sorry for any typos - enjoy!!

chapter masterlist | main masterlist

You could smell the sea before you saw it.

Years ago, you believed that the smell of the ocean and the briskness of the icy air would be consoling. The sight of home after all this time – the whirling mass of the city – was supposed to make you happy. But all you felt was dread. Anxiety has been building for days as you grew closer. For so many years, you had been focused on returning to this place, yet now that you were here, you didn’t know how to progress. You would still need to marry to save the city and come up with some kind of solution. Thoughts of James’ proposal still hung heavy on your mind, burden after burden becoming a crushing weight on your shoulders. 

Once your mother was put to rest, you would truly be alone. The last of a once great line, a final soldier facing down an army. A ship lost at sea during a storm. When you closed your eyes at night, you could see those enormous waves before you, impossibly large, crashing down and pushing you to the sandy ocean floor below. 

If Peggy had noticed your nightmares, she hadn’t said anything. She wouldn’t mention how you would wake in a cold sweat, arms sore and tense as you had desperately tried to claw your way to the surface. With each passing day, you grew quieter until you found no need to talk at all. Some days Steve would extract a grunt or a half-smile from you, but mostly he watched on with concerned frowns, locked in conversation with James. 

James. That was another man you had not spoken to in some time. Even the cold of the Stormfall Mountains could not compare to the chill that had grown between the two of you. That was another image that haunted you – the reluctance on James’ face when, moments earlier, you had poured your heart out to him that night in his room. Was he repulsed by you? Did he regret all the moments you shared? Had you pushed too far with your questions about Rebecca? You would never know because no words were shared between you. He pulled back, and you pulled back further, hoping to disappear into the snow and rock like a snow leopard, like a Ghost of the Mountain. 

The icy, cobbled streets of Faliene were as you remembered. They were twisted and narrow, and layers of stacked housing were featured on every street. Banners and flags were still strung between upper floors, tattered and faded as they danced in the wind. Salt crunched beneath your horse's hooves, and a biting wind blowing from the docks sank painfully into your bones. 

She was just as you remembered, but she was void. A husk of her former self, left gutted and abandoned.  

There were no markets and no travelers on the streets. Houses lay abandoned, windows and doors boarded up with the remnants of chipped red x’s painted upon them. Shipping barrels lay untouched in alleys, shops empty and rotting. City of Ghosts. How many were taken during the plague? How much death had your child's brain washed away to protect you? 

It was eerie, near silent. The only sound came from the docks, the soft lapping of the waves, the creak of the boats, and the distant chatter of sailors. So empty, so still. It was as if time had frozen and your procession was the only thing left thawed. 

Even as dread gripped your core, you couldn’t help but feel the scene was serene. In your mind’s eye you could remember people scurrying to and fro, across the streets and in and out of shops, their goods tucked under cloaks. Children running between their mother’s skirts, and horses whinnying and snorting as they navigated their way through the packed streets. You can even hear a bell chime and you turn your head to the shop next to you. The visions dissipate, and all that is left is a gray, stone storefront with a painted trident fading above the doorframe. The arctic breeze blew through your hair like icy fingers caressing your scalp. Deep in your bones, you felt it – a calling, a whisper, welcome home. 

You pulled your horse to a stop at a crossroads, a large open space near the center of the city. The view from the hill provided a clear landscape of the surrounding alleys, lanes, and the docks below, each scattering away from you like shattered glass. Up a wide, well-paved road to the right, Fort Faliene stood proudly, casting shadows on the mountain behind her.

You knew your ladies’ maids and footmen would be waiting up there, having been informed of your collective arrival. You could not bear to look at the fort for long; the ache in your heart was too strong. You were aware that without your family, the hallways would be chilly and empty, and part of you yearned to preserve those early memories, tuck them closely to your chest, and never let them go. 

Your moment of thought was broken as Steve pulled his horse to a stop beside yours, shivering as he rubbed a gloved hand over his arms. James remained nearby, close enough to listen but not close enough to be part of your conversation. 

“When you said it would be cold, I did not think it could get any worse than those mountains.” Steve mutters through clattering teeth. You bite back a smile, glancing back to watch as the carriages carefully roll closer over the grit and ice. 

You were minutes away from Fort Faliene, the place you were raised and called home. Yet a part of you felt content to stay frozen atop your horse. A large serpent had crept its way under your skin, twisting, biting and squeezing your insides until you were left breathless. You were not ready to face those halls yet. Would you ever be? 

“I need you to lead the carriages up to Fort Faliene. It’s up the road to your right, follow it to its end. The staff will show you to your rooms.” You finally speak for the first time in days, watching in your peripheral vision as both Steve and James’ faces morph into looks of confusion. 

“Why, where are you going?” Steve asks, but you don’t respond.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth and you fear tripping over your words. Instead, you nudge your horse into a trot, following the winding path down to the docks. If the two men were confused or called after you, you don’t hear it. Your focus is entirely on the docks below. Before you entered that Fort, the place where your father had died, you needed a moment alone with the waves and the wind. 

—

The sailors had eyed you suspiciously as you walked to the water's edge, sand crunching beneath your boots. The men were bulky and decorated with tattoos and scruffy beards. The stench of fresh fish was overpowering but familiar; the sailors were using rigging and rope to haul the barrels from the docks. You had tried to pay them no mind as they paused their hauling, their kohl-lined eyes narrowing as they inspected your every move. 

They didn’t recognize you, which you quickly realized. They had every reason to be cautious of an unknown noblewoman invading their space. But you did not wish to disturb them however; you just wanted a moment to breathe.

You peeled off your gloves, tucking them into your pocket as you crouched down next to the surf. The icy water stung as it rushed over your fingers, your bones aching with the chill. You did not submit to the cold, instead exhaling sharply as you tried to imprint that sensation in your mind forever. As a child, you played in these waters, barefoot and fearless. The possibility that those were your last happy memories and that everything could disappear in a matter of seconds was something you had not thought about at the time. 

“Excuse me, Miss, are you lost?” A thick, northern accent calls out to you from the docks. A younger man stood, peering over at you. You didn’t recognize him, but you could tell he was around your age. He wasn’t as muscled and rugged as the other sailors – fresh meat, you assumed. 

You didn’t reply instantly, instead withdrawing your numb fingers from the lapping waves with a short sigh. You rubbed your fingers together, feeling the salty moisture between your skin, before turning to walk back onto the docks. 

“If you’re here for the funeral, Fort Faliene is back up–” The man began once more, but you waved your hand with a half-smile and cut over him. 

“I’m not lost, just taking the air.” You clarified, pausing before him. Despite the chill, he only wore a thick woolen shirt and pants, which seemed to feature some holes that had been stitched with patches of mismatched fabric. Your eyes swept down to his shoes, noting the scuffs. Time had been hard on Faliene, maybe more so than you realized. The man sheepishly ducked his head, avoiding your gaze. His short hair was tousled by the wind, and a faint odor of fish was surrounded him. 

“Oh, I–” the young man stumbled over his words, as if unsure of how to react. 

Before he could gather himself, a gruff voice sounded from behind him. “It’s not safe on the docks, Miss.” 

That was a lie; you knew it. The docks were always safe, and children would often play in the water while their parents worked. You knew it was rather that they didn’t want you here, a stranger in their home. Falieneans had never been the most hospitable and were incredibly superstitious. The eyes that met you as you glanced up were cold and uninviting. If you had not known the man behind those eyes, you might have felt uncomfortable under his gaze. But you did know him; you had known him since you were a child. 

There was little difference from how you remembered him; maybe his beard had grown more gray and his face more wrinkled. Brannigan, Master of the Docks. His assistance in overseeing the sailors and the boats made him a close friend of your father. But from the icy tone and the distant look in his eyes… he did not recognize you. 

“No need to fret, Brannigan, I will be out of your way soon.” You hummed to the muscled, older man. You watched as a flicker of surprise crossed his face, his eyebrows twitching upward. He looked at you, truly looked. His gaze turned from frigid to something more analytical. You didn’t speak as he stared, his eyes darting from the silver rings on your fingers, the trident necklace at your neck, and the way your hair was braided. 

You watched as he slowly understood who you were, a glimmer of familiarity crossing his features. You could not blame him; the last time he saw you, you were a child. And now you were here, returning as a woman. 

But as quickly as that familiarity crossed his face, it was gone, once again replaced with an indifferent gaze. 

“I was sorry to hear about your mother, My Lady.” Brannigan finally spoke. His words did nothing to quell the gnawing anxiety in your stomach as you picked up on the bitterness of his tone. The sweet man you had once known was gone in that moment, replaced with something hardened and apathetic. 

You kept your face straight as your eyes found the sailors, all of whom had paused their duties to watch the interaction with their own hardened stares. There was no joy or spark of excitement to see you. Their lady finally returned, and they were filled with resentment. 

They were angry with you. 

You nodded stiffly at Brannigan, meeting his eye once more. “Thank you. I am just glad to see her returned to Faliene.” 

Brannigan gave you his own rigid nod in return, a hum grumbling in his chest. The ache in your own chest continued to grow, the imagined serpent squeezing tighter until you nearly forgot how to breathe. You could understand why they were angry; they had been abandoned in their time of need. For the years that your mother was ill, money and trade grinded nearly to a halt with no one to oversee the paperwork. Those duties were supposed to fall to King Harrison, who failed to do so once the war began. 

And now those duties would fall to your future husband, if he decided to make it worth his time. 

The Falieneans must have been aware of your situation and that of your mother. They must have been familiar with the intricacies of politics and war, but they had come to despise you. They assumed you were spoiled at Haiford Castle, and they were starving. You could see the hunger that clung to them, the holes in their clothes, and the weariness in their bones. You were stuck between two worlds, one of which considered you too northern, while the other considered you too southern. 

“We had hoped for news of a marriage.” Brannigan spoke once more, his words being the final nail in the coffin. There it was – the hatred, the bitterness, and the loathing. You let out a sharp breath through your nose, trying to ignore the bile rising in your throat. 

You felt the urge to explain, to pull apart all that had happened in your absence and lay it bare. You wanted them to understand that you did care and that you weren’t some foolish little girl. You wanted to explain the Rumlow problem, the relationship forming between you and James, and the older lords who simply wanted more children and not a ghost city–

But you didn’t. It wasn’t right. 

Instead, you held it close to your chest and plastered on a small, brittle smile. “I had hoped so too.”

You quickly bid them farewell and walked stiffly back to your horse, hoping they had not noticed how badly your hands shook. 

—

By the time you were walking through the front doors of Fort Faliene, you were sick with anxiety. A cold sweat had begun to form under your layers of clothing, and a sore ache was developing in your stomach. It took all your strength not to let tears slip on the ride back up the hill; that would have to wait until you were alone. Thankfully, it did seem like you were. Since there was no carriage, luggage, or guests in sight, the ladies’ maids and footmen must have shown the traveling party to their rooms. 

The dark wood floors and stone walls were just as you remembered, with deep azure rugs, paintings, and banners lining the walls. A grand staircase stood before you, with blue-stained rope twisted around the bannister as decoration. Old netting hung from the upper levels, with seashells and driftwood intertwined to look like fish. 

The scent was what hit you the most – something indescribable but specific to your childhood. Your heart squeezed as you noticed the rocks and seashells lining the windowsills, the bookshelves stuffed full of books, and the unique knick-knacks your father had once collected. 

“You look like shit!” A voice called down from the staircase. You glanced upward, unable to hold back the smile that grew on your face. A young redheaded woman stood half-way up, grinning back at you. You knew she had never been one to consider her words before speaking. It was probably one of the reasons you two had grown so close during your childhood. She probably wasn’t wrong either; you imagined the stress and travel and had made you a bit haggard. The ache in your chest eased at finally seeing a familiar face who didn’t hate you immediately.

“Nice to see you too, Wanda.” You called back up to her, and she bounded down the stairs. Her skirts bounced and swirled around her legs, and you were only able to let out a soft ‘oof’ noise as she bowled into you. Her arms wrapped around you as she pulled you in for a hug, the strands of her hair tickling your cheek as she rested her chin on your shoulder. 

You resisted the urge to inhale her scent, instead winding your own arms around her form as you hugged her back tightly. Another piece of home. 

Wanda’s mother had been your mother's maid. You had run rampant through the halls of Fort Faliene, causing chaos and stealing food from the kitchens. The two of you would gossip and play along the docks, balancing on the wooden railings and softly singing Falienean folk songs. Wanda, like you, had grown into a woman since you had last seen her; in fact, she was a few inches taller than you now. Unlike you she had received her coming-of-age tattoos: a line on her chin and swirling patterns and runes across her fingers, hands, and forearms. 

“You smell like horse.” Wanda comments in her dry, northern accent, wrinkling up her nose as she pulls away. You roll your eyes at her in return, allowing her to take your cloak into her hands. It seemed she had followed her mother's profession, becoming a maid for your family, though you could not say what duties she would have had in your absence. 

“Travelling does that, I’m afraid.” You state as you walk up the stairs. They were the same dark color as the floors, with a cerulean blue runner down the center. The stairs reached a landing and split into two sets, which led to different sides of the balcony that overlooked the entrance. 

“I trust the pass wasn’t too terrible to travel?” Wanda hummed as she followed you.

“It was fine. I couldn’t say that same for the guests though; but we all know traveling that pass is the initiation process to see who will survive the chill.” You reply, and Wanda snickers softly in response. 

You paused briefly on the landing, straining your neck to look at the large portrait that hung overlooking the space. An oil painting of your mother and father after their wedding, smiling happily in their dress and suit. Your mother wore the heirloom necklace you had worn to the ball – layers of pearls and seashells – and seeing it now left you feeling uneasy. 

“It’s creepy having them watching.” Wanda admits from beside you, and you bite the inside of your cheek, tearing your eyes away. Living within these walls must have been unsettling after the plague, having to grow accustomed to the eerie silence that smothered the city. 

“I imagined these halls would feel… wrong without them, but it’s just as I remember.” You utter back, turning to face the next set of stairs. You see Wanda smile sadly from behind her hair, her own eyes briefly looking back at the portrait before following you. 

“You sound like one of them now, your accent is all strange.” Wanda observes as the two of you ascend. 

“I do not.” You grumble, and Wanda gives you another beaming smile, a teasing one. 

“Who would’ve thought? I remember when we would curse the bastards while throwing stones off the dock! My Lady, a proper southerner, how wrong is that?” She mocks, and you visibly cringe, scoffing. 

“Don’t say that, I’m already having a terrible day–” You begin with a groan, your head leaning back as you look at the high ceiling. 

“I take it the docks didn’t go well?” Wanda interjects; she is still smiling, but you can sense the uncertainty in her tone. 

You bite back a sigh. You don’t question how she already knew you had gone down there. She probably guessed you had the moment you didn’t turn up with the main party. Even as a child, you had the tendency to slip away to the shoreline, and your mother was often exasperated by your avoidance of important dinners. The two of you had treated the waters like a safe haven, a place you could disappear and cause havoc.

You chewed on what had happened down at the docks, debating if it was worth bringing up your worries to Wanda. You had been close friends once, and you hoped time had done nothing to ruin that bond between you. “Brannigan seems to have become bitter in his old age–” 

“Don’t listen to that idiot.” Wanda interjects once more, her tone irritated, and you bite your tongue.

From her reaction, your assumptions are correct. The cold stares were purposeful; there was distrust and unease spreading through your beloved home. Your people were angry with you because of things you could not control and because of things they could not know. They felt abandoned by your mother and, in turn, by you. Your one duty was to marry and provide security, but it seemed you had failed even that. A part of you felt like a fool for assuming they would welcome you with open arms. 

If only your mother had not grown sick, if only the lords of the continent were not pigs in fancy dress, if only James was not in debt to Haiford... You could list so many reasons to feel sorry for yourself, yet you were still stumped for solutions. You were still in the midgame, hesitantly moving pieces as you tried to fix everything. 

Maybe you were just a foolish girl after all.

“What if he is right?” You mumbled, assuming that Wanda had heard whatever grievance the sailors had with you. 

“About what?” 

“About me? I get the feeling that he does not approve of me as a lady, like I am somehow sabotaging Faliene. All the sailors hate me, he must be muttering things in their ear. He had the gall to bring up my lack of marriage prospects in front of all of the men.” You groan as you look down at your feet in defeat.

Wanda lets out an annoyed hiss, rolling her eyes while her shoulders tense. “Brannigan has been muttering about change for years now, he’s just too much of a pussy to do anything about it beyond bitching and moaning to anyone who will–”

Wanda's words stopped abruptly as you rounded the corner onto the balcony. You look up from your feet to see why. Steve and James linger by the banisters, trying to seem like they hadn’t watched and listened to the whole interaction unfold below them. Steve turns his back, as if trying to hide his face from you. Your lips press into a fine line, James’ gaze burning on you as always. 

“I keep forgetting we have company for once.” Wanda mumbles under her breath to you, and you shake your head, pulling your gaze away from the two Galantians as they intensely try to make themselves look busy or distracted. 

“Don’t worry, they won’t say anything.” You murmur back. “In fact, they will probably find it funny.”

“You know them well, then? It seems I have missed a lot.” You don’t miss the teasing tone and can only muster a low groan in reply. 

Wanda giggled softly in your ear, linking your arms together as you walked past James and Steve. She offers the two men a curt bow of her head, while your gaze remains fixed strictly ahead. The last thing your anxiety needed was the two men meddling with your emotions. 

“I had you moved into your parents' old room, I hope you don’t mind.” Wanda mentions as you reach the end of the balcony, turning down one of the long corridors that lead to the main wing. “The rest are in the guest wing.” 

“Were my parents' belongings removed?” You ask cautiously, following the familiar path down the halls and up a spiraling staircase. 

“Some of your fathers were after... but most of it remains the same. I can have them removed, if you like?” 

“No, leave them. I just... hoped that they hadn’t been discarded.” You admit sheepishly, and Wanda gives you another one of her sad smiles. 

You were eager to dismiss Wanda once you arrived in your parents old room, wanting a moment alone. Although some spaces remained empty where you knew your father's belongings would have been, it was mostly the same as you remembered. 

It seemed to have been regularly cleaned and dusted, with a new set of sheets and furs atop the bed. One of your father's many bookshelves stood against the wall, half empty. Your mother’s vanity lay mostly bare, with the exception of some shells you had gifted to her as a child. 

Tears pricked your eyes at the sight of the half-empty closet. You ran your fingers through the fabric of your mother’s old gowns, left behind as you two fled to the capital. Beyond the lingering scent of dust, you could still make out the faint smell of her floral soap and perfume clinging to the fabric. 

You could not stand to look at your mother’s crafts which still decorated the room. Cushions embroidered, the fabric and thread faded by the sun. Even the large lace doilies remained draped over the bedside tables. You wondered how many pieces of her craft still lay unfinished in your dowry chest. You recalled your mother handcrafting your wedding veil not long after your eighth birthday. 

With a hard swallow, you kick off your boots and curl up sideways on the bed, staring up into the canopy. Only then do you allow the tears to flow. 

—

The drums began at dawn. They started out low and distant, and it was not until the sun started to rise higher over the waters that they picked up speed, rumbling and thundering down the streets. Faliene came to life for the first time in years, her heart beating so quickly that it drowned out the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. 

The final traveling party had arrived the night before, after a week or so of traversing the mountain pass. Families had descended from the Stormfall Mountains, and sailors had returned from the open ocean, their beards frozen and their skin chapped. Today was your mother's funeral. You needed to be strong.  

The crowd congregated on Caloe Peak, a small outcropping of land close to the fort. An open, level landing was surrounded by mounds of snow. At its center lay the funeral pyre, wood logs stacked to hip height with your mother's body atop. The stiff, pale limbs of your mother were clasped at her chest. An assortment of flowers, shells, and rocks formed an outline around her body. Her long, dark hair spread out beneath her, giving her a small, sickly appearance. In spite of that, she finally appeared at peace.

You stood near the back, your cloak obscuring your form and your hood pulled back to hide your face. The crowd had not yet become aware of your presence. Instead, a knot in your stomach tightened as you considered the situation in front of you. 

The Falieneans and the visitors made up two groups within the crowd. In contrast to the Haifordians and Galantians, who appeared more uncertain, the Asgardians appeared at ease and unfazed by the situation in front of them. James was standing at the front of the group, his eyes sweeping the Falienean women as if he were looking for you. 

Beside a flaming torch, Priest Helman stood. He was an older man, balding with a salt and pepper beard. He had numerous tattoos on his body, and below each of his eyes, kohl was drawn in a line. Rither and Arthard, his acolytes, stood beside him, attempting to control a rambunctious, wild mountain goat that had been captured and brought down from the mountains.

Only as you expertly weaved your way through the crowd did the Falienean’s pause their murmuring. Your heavy cloak dragged across the icy ground, and the material was soiled and damp. The fabric itself was embroidered with swirling runes and designs, which served as spells of protection, and the edges were trimmed with a thick, heavy coat of fur. It was critical that you remained strong and protected in preparation for the ritual. Falieneans believed that spirits hung close when a funeral was near, and it was hard to predict if a spirit was friend or foe. 

As you paused in front of Priest Helman, a heavy silence fell over the clearing, the drums falling silent for the first time in hours. Brannigan could be seen in your peripheral vision, his face as cold as ever, arms crossed over his chest. This funeral was a test in many ways, not only in terms of your strength as a daughter but also as a leader. Brannigan hung near the crowd of guests, assuming the role of explaining the significance of each part of the ritual. 

Helman reached out with wrinkled fingers, carefully removing the hood from your head before wordlessly unclasping your cloak. You wore a simple black dress with short sleeves that exposed your arms and shoulders to the chill. Helman murmured a brief prayer under his breath, and you felt goosebumps spread across your skin. 

“It is believed by our people that when there is a funeral, spirits linger. Until it can be freed by fire, the soul of the deceased is imprisoned inside the body. The women can see and feel the spirits, so it is their purpose to protect the soul so it does not become another spirit, trapped between worlds.” Brannigan’s rough voice explained, and the crowd hesitantly hummed in response. 

You continued to move through the motions of the ritual as he spoke. Having observed and participated in numerous funerals in your youth, you knew every step by heart. Getting down on your knees, you encircled the mountain goat's face with your hands, gently hushing it as it wriggled in your hold. You could see the whites of its eyes and the split pupil darting around in fear. As you caressed the goat's face with your fingers and muttered a silent plea, Rither and Arthard kept the animal still. 

“Give us strength, little one.” 

The animal jerks under you, its scream of pain cut short as Helman swiftly runs a knife along its throat. Blood spills down the goat's neck, dripping into a large wooden bowl below. With the goat's knees buckling, you move with it, stooping lower to the ground. You mutter soothing words as its eyes roll back in terror and its chest heaves. Only as its body grows still, slumping to the ground fully, do you withdraw your fingers from its coarse coat. 

“The women must dance around the body, creating a wall to keep the spirits away. The closest living relative must lead the dance, it is their duty to stay dancing until all the other women have fallen and the body is burnt to ash.” Brannigan continues to explain as you carefully close the eyes of the goat.

Some of the men advance, picking up the body and dragging it out of the clearing. The carcass would be delivered to the kitchens, where it would be prepared for the subsequent feast. Slowly, you rise once more, an arctic breeze caressing your skin as you lock eyes with Priest Helman. 

Rither and Arthard take the bowl of thick, crimson blood, pouring a small pitcher of salt water in. Their hands reach into the mixture, swirling and mixing it until the liquid is smooth. Their hands extend and lather the mixture along your arms, upper chest, and neck, sending a chill down your spine. The layer is warm at first, then quickly grows cold under the frigid breeze blowing from the ocean. 

“What is the blood for, then?” You hear one of the guests ask as you flex your fists, exhaling sharply as Rither and Arthard move on to the crowd of women. The mixture is slick against your skin, droplets pooling in your palm and cleavage as you find your position next to the funeral pyre. 

“For strength. The essence of the animal will give the women the strength to continue on, the ritual can last for hours or days. The leader needs the most strength, so she is given the most essence.” Brannigan continues to explain. You watch as the women of Faliene line up, allowing Rither and Arthard to flick blood onto their faces. 

“And what happens if she falls before the others?” The familiar voice of Prince Michael asks, and you don’t have to look up at him to hear the sneer in his voice. 

“Then her mother’s soul is lost forever.” Brannigan says, and you swallow hard. You doubted Brannigan would hold you in much respect if you failed or gave in to weakness. 

Around the pyre, the women slowly start to join you, forming several layers of close circles. The young and elderly occupied the outer ring farthest from the pyre, while you stood in the one closest to it. Those who were most likely to fall first would be on the outer rings, while the strongest were in the middle as a final defense against the spirits. 

As Helman moves through the rings holding a blazing torch, silence descends once more. The dry brush comes to life in vibrant orange and yellow hues as the pyre ignites. Helman pulls away from the circle, the wood crackling and smoke filling your nostrils. Only when you give a small nod do the drums start once more. 

Your ring started dancing to the right as soon as your hands were linked to the women next to you, while the next ring started dancing to the left. You envisioned it from above to resemble a swirling mass of skirts, with each ring moving in a different direction in time with the beat. 

Your circle drew inward, tighter, and nearer to the flames as you whirled around the pyre. You could feel the heat licking at your skin. Relief was quick as you pulled outwards again, arms stretching out as far as they could go until interlocked hands were ripped apart. You all spun in place three times, then moved toward the fire again, hands interlocking as you continued to spiral in the opposite direction, pulling in and out like a beating heart. 

It was easy to fall into a trance, only focusing on your breath, where your feet fell, the heat of the fire, and the smoke in your lungs. The crowd of people became a blur; there were only you and the fire now. You could not see the Haifordian’s sneers, James’ heated gazes, or Brannigan's cold stares anymore; you were alone with the spirits now. 

It didn’t take long for the first to stumble and drop out, mostly younger children and the elderly, as the pace became too much to follow. You could taste copper in your mouth; your breathing was ragged; and a layer of sweat was growing across your skin. Even if the air burned with each gulp you inhaled, you felt alive. The women who stood on the edges began to sing Falienean folk songs along with the drums, swaying in place as they silently encouraged those still dancing. You could’ve sworn in your daze that you saw the spirits hovering – translucent and frightening with crooked smiles and long talons. 

You did not notice as the sun arced further into the sky, then back down to earth. You did not even notice as the crowd began to thin, guests abandoning their posts in favor of sleep as the sun was replaced by the moon. As time continued to pass, you became one with the drums and fire, your limbs aching with each step. 

Briefly, you jolted and stumbled as the woman beside you fell to her knees, a nearby man dragging her out before she was trampled by the dancers. The fire had begun to grow cold; the roaring flames had turned to crackling embers. Even as the smoke cleared and you were only left with the icy winds that burned your lungs, you did not fall. 

One by one, the dancers grew tired, falling to their knees, limp and exhausted. The once-slick blood that had layered your bare skin had begun to crack and peel, with some sections smudged by the sweat that had gathered. The sun began to rise once again, its warm rays of light a welcome gift for your stiff, exhausted body. 

The crowd grew in size once more, with guests gathering as they sensed the dance was nearing its end. Across the ashes was Wanda, and the two of you locked into a silent stare as you continued to dance. You could see her movements were growing sluggish; she was beginning to trip over her own feet as she fought to stay upright. 

Through your haze, your reactions slowed as Wanda finally fell, her knees biting painfully into the frozen earth below. You staggered as you came to a stop, your chest heaving and your legs trembling. Wanda’s hands dug into the frozen mud, a small sob escaping her as the exhaustion and pain took over her frame. 

Your body did not feel like your own as you walked slowly towards her, your lungs burning as you cocked your head to one side. You could not crouch down beside her out of fear of not being able to get up yourself. Instead, you extended your hand, using the last of your might to pull her to her feet and into a brief embrace. 

“Savor your strength.” Wanda choked into your ear, tears still trailing down her pale face. “Your journey is not over yet.” 

—

You crouched by the waters edge, scooping handfuls of the arctic waters onto the exposed sections of skin to scrub away the blood and ash. it stung your flesh and left an ache in your bones. Your legs were still shaking from exhaustion as you knelt by the water's edge. The crowd had dispersed, and they were now returning to Fort Faliene for the eagerly anticipated feast. 

Even though the last few steps of the funeral ritual were simpler to complete, they still required all of your remaining energy. You were expected to gather handfuls of your mother's ashes, and place them inside a small ceramic urn. The ashes had still been warm as you collected them with your bare hands, with bone and rock hidden within. The last of the ashes that could not be stored within the urn would be spread at sea by the next boat to depart. 

After gathering the ashes, you walked down to the docks and got onto a rowboat, which ferried you to the Island of Tilla. Tilla was for the dead. The living were only allowed to step foot on the Island to bring the dead to their resting places. The only exception was the winter equinox, when Falieneans celebrated their ancestors. 

You had only visited the crypts a few times in your life; the dark, icy, winding stone corridors had terrified you as a child. Now, as an adult, it intrigued you. You found yourself examining the urns of your ancestors, your fingers tracing over the damp stone shelves and engravings. 

Your exploration was only interrupted when you came across the well-known urn of your father, where you ran your fingers along the dust-covered blue ceramic. You placed your mother’s urn next to him, uttered your prayers, and returned to the surface. 

Even though the cold made your hands and body tremble, you persisted in washing the final remnants of the ritual off your skin. You knew that if you took a bath, you would fall unconscious in the warm waters before you were able to attend the feast. So, instead, you opted for the more painful solution – shocking your system awake with the icy sea water. As usual, the ocean wind was biting, cutting deep into your bones until even your core felt frozen. 

“You look like you need this.” A familiar, deep voice spoke from behind you. You whirled your head around, your eyes snapping to where James stood, extending a heavy cloak for you to take. Your legs wailed in protest as you stumbled to your feet and gratefully buried your hands in the plush furs that trimmed the edges.  

“I take it that you’re talking to me again, then?” You grumble at the King, maybe a little too aggressively, “You haven’t spoken to me since the pass,” you clarify at his bemused head tilt.

As you sweep the cloak over your shoulders shuddering while clasping it in place, James rubs his stubbled jaw in contemplation. Only as you pull the fabric closer to your body with a content sigh do you notice the scent. James’ scent. Your eyes flicker over him briefly, now noticing the glaringly obvious lack of a cloak around his own shoulders. 

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” He finally speaks up. “I was waiting until you came to me.”

You give a long and hard stare, trying to hold still as the shivers continue to grip your body beneath his cloak. You clutch the cloak closer to yourself as a gust of glacial air blows straight through you. James seems mostly unbothered by the cold, with only a tinge of pink to his ears and nose. His clothing was thick and expensive, mostly sparing him from the chill.

“I don’t understand.” You finally say, your voice strained as you try not to let your teeth chatter. James lets out a long sigh, motioning you away from the water that laps around your boots as the tide pushes up the shore. 

“You seemed… troubled. I understand what it is like to have anxieties about your people and their expectations of you. I thought it better if I allowed you some space to mull it over and be with them.” He explains, gently taking hold of your forearm through the cloak as he leads the both of you off the sandy shore and back onto the docks. Your calves are relieved to be on solid ground once more, no longer fighting against the shifting sands.

“Oh.” Is all you can mutter, your fatigued brain working twice as hard to digest the information it was given. “I thought… I thought you were upset with me for prying about Rebecca that night.”

“What?” James half-barks, bewildered by your assumption.

You furrow your eyebrows. Did he not… remember that night? Your tone is confused as you speak up. “That night when I came to your room because Steve and Peggy were... We spoke of the past, I thought I had upset you or somehow overshared–”

“Why would you think that?” He questions, his tone equally as confused.

You halt your walking, chewing the inside of your cheek with a sigh as you try to decide if your worries are worth divulging. It seemed that James was trying to be more thoughtful than you initially assumed; had you let your anxieties build until you constructed a fantasy in your mind?

“Because... because I reached out for you and then Steve walked in and you wouldn’t even look at me, it was like you were disgusted by me or–” Your words fade off as James looks at you hard, and then, to your surprise, he laughs. He actually laughs.

You feel like recoiling, maybe even crying, but then he closes the distance between you, pulling you into his arms. In your weariness you don’t protest, instead you lay your head against his strong sternum. Below your ear, his chest rumbles with a chuckle before giving way to a short sigh as he brushes his fingers through your wind-blown hair. Some of the braids had come loose during the dance, and you could only assume it smelled of smoke. 

“I couldn’t look at you because I knew I wouldn’t have been able to control my actions.” He admits it hesitantly, and your attention perks up at that. “If Steve hadn’t walked in... I would have kissed you right there on the spot.”

“James–” You mutter in astonishment, pulling back your head as you look up at him. His own head dips, his nose ghosting along your jaw and neck as he begins to mumble his next words to you. It was as if a tightly coiled rope had finally snapped within James, his touch and words were suddenly insatiable, as if any sense or sensibility had been unbridled. Your body shivers, this time not from the cold.

“You drive me mad. I am sick with madness for you. I can’t look at you because I can’t control my thoughts. I lay awake at night thinking of you, your scent, and the way you feel. Every day on that damn mountain, I would look at you and imagine how you would taste, how you would react to my touch, the sounds you would make. Do you understand? You’ve intoxicated me, you’ve possessed my mind, body, and soul with desire.” His voice is husky as he speaks, desperate and ravenous as his fingers grasp at your waist tightly and his lips graze across your neck. 

Arousal pools in your gut, and your legs feel even weaker than before. You whimper softly at his words. Your hands make a fist around the fabric of his shirt, holding on desperately in the hopes that your knees won’t fully buckle. 

“That is why I distanced myself, I knew it was unfair to burden you with such thoughts while you were in mourning and planning the–”

“James.” You cut him off. Your voice is strained, your mind is dizzy and delirious from his scent and touch. Somehow finding the strength, you lift one of your hands and gently caress his face with your thumb. “I feel the same way.”

The grin that he gives you is nearly enough to knock you off your feet once more. If it weren’t for the lingering fear that someone was watching this very public display, you would have stood on your toes to kiss him. You would’ve let him consume you whole. 

Unfortunately, the sensible part of your brain knew better, or rather, thankfully, because right on cue, Steve and Wanda rounded the corner of the docks. The two seemed to hesitate for a moment, noticing the proximity at which you both stood. A short, sharp sigh escapes your nose as you glance between Steve, Wanda, and James. 

Reluctantly, you pull back, instantly missing the warmth of his touch. Even from a distance, you can see the wide grin that both Steve and Wanda sport. You expected a lengthy integration when you were next alone with Wanda. 

“I think you need to fasten a bell on Steve.” You mumble lowly, and James chuckles, briefly rubbing your back before once again gently leading you up the docks. 

“He does have a way of interrupting us, doesn’t he?”

taglist | @liter4ti @just-someone11 @champagnejoker @scooobies @queerqueenlynn @fanfictionjunkie1112 @themotherof10 @diaries-of-a-hopelessromantic

[greenbergwrites]

When Bucky first meets them ettiene is 100% hissing, biting, ready to throw hands at anyone who tries to get too close to Steve. Whatever situation they were previously in has made him very protective, and if Bucky wants to even look at Steve he has to go through ettiene. Luckily for him, Ettiene’s protective ways are NO match for the massive crush that Steve has developed on Bucky. Steve and Ettiene definetly fall asleep piled around and ontop of each other for comfort, but in the middle of the night Steve always sneaks off to Alpha Buckys office, peeping through the cracked open door, admiring Bucky as he does his work and takes calls, scurrying off if he hears someone approaching.

The thing is Bucky KNOWS that Steve is there, he’s scented him since before he even entered the hallway, but since steve is so shy and small he says nothing to avoid scaring him off, instead just enjoying the company of the pup.

I imagine this goes on for a while, there may even be times where Steve falls asleep with his head against the door, only to wake up tucked in right next to Etienne in their pup pile, faint memories of strong warm hands carrying him.

So, I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while, not fleshed out enough to be an actual plot but kind of like the Nameless Alpha & Omega story where I just had ideas

I was going to try to actually scrape it together and write it as an original story, but what you said lines up enough with it that I might as well throw it in the ring as another 'verse

The basic idea is this:

A world where humans know about the supernatural, but it's still a fresh discovery. Decades old, maybe. Everyone is still trying to figure out how the worlds fit together, and there's a lot of fear on both sides, but it's mostly working out.

Enforcers used to be the protectors of the pack, but now they're protectors of the supernatural community in general.

I toyed with the idea of the Enforcers being an official branch of law enforcement, but if we're leaning towards criminal!Bucky, then it would definitely have to be unofficial.

Or maybe the Enforcers are official and Bucky is the guy they call when their hands are tied.

Either way, when something goes down and a parahuman is involved, the Enforcers get called in.

It's one such call that changes everything.

Bucky arrives at a desolate, abandoned warehouse. Bright lights from the ambulances, cop cars, firetrucks--they flash in the rain, a beacon of trouble for some, a port in the storm for others.

A steady line of hunched figures climb into the waiting ambulances. All of them are human, though, and so not his problem.

An Enforcer approaches the caution tape where Bucky stands waiting. He lifts it, stepping aside for Bucky to duck under.

"This way," he says softly.

For humans, the words would've been lost in the rain. Not for them.

Bucky follows him into the warehouse. He abandons his umbrella by the door and keeps walking.

The inside of the warehouse is exactly as he would expect. Dust and debris everywhere, cobwebs and shadows that might move if you looked too long. It's not the look of the place that gives Bucky pause, though; it's the feel.

He's been in many abandoned places, many warehouses. None felt like this. There's a weight to the air, a stillness that threatens to suffocate anyone stupid enough to linger. There are ghosts here, and not necessarily of the supernatural kind.

A gigantic hole takes up most of the center of the warehouse. There's a few ladders scattering its edges and some sort of pulley system, as if the idea is to get as many people out at once time as possible.

There are less humans inside the warehouse, but still enough. They glance sideways at the Enforcer, and then at Bucky, and if the rain outside didn't hide the Enforcer's words, it's muffled pattern on the roof definitely doesn't hide the trip and gallop of their heartbeats.

The Enforcer doesn't lead him to the hole or to any of the ladders. Instead they take the stairs. They're at the back of the building, and as soon as Bucky steps onto them, he understands why that isn't the evacuation point. These stairs wouldn't be able to handle that much weight at one time.

They're old, rusted and just as dusty as everything else, sand falling to the floor below with every shaky step they take.

When Bucky reaches the bottom, he has to stop and steady himself. The atmosphere down here is somehow worse. The scent is acrid, cloying.

It stinks of waste, but the other scents are worse. The salt of tears, the taste of desperation. Pain. Anger. Fear.

Isolation, hunger, loneliness--those things don't have a proper scent. Scenting them out takes context clues, pairing the general scent of someone's unhappiness with body language, behavior.

Bucky knows he can't scent them, but somehow, somehow, he's sure that he does, anyways.

"I know," the Enforce intones grimly, and nods his head towards a hallway on Bucky's left.

There are cages.

They might have been rooms, once. Offices, laboratories, who knows. But someone's taken the doors off the frames and replaced them with bars.

No one is in them, anymore. They've all been unlocked, opened, the prisoners set free. At the end of the hall, there's a crowd of humans. They're just standing there, motionless. Onlookers to something, something that has them smelling fearful and heartbroken at the same time.

Bucky hears the hissing before he sees what the spectacle is.

The crowd of humans part, making way for them. Hugging the wall so there's no chance of accidental brushes. Humans are a superstitious lot, and somewhere in the past years, they've gotten in their heads that a wolf can't take your scent--can't track you--as long as you don't get close enough.

It's bullshit, but Bucky's not in the business of educating humans. And especially not here, not now.

Not when he moves past them and the spectacle that held them captive now takes hold of him.

Omegas. Two of them. Pale and rangy, covered in dirt and grime, torn clothes and fearful scents, but very clearly Omegas.

One of them sits with his back against the wall of their cage, his knees pulled to his chest, bright blue eyes peeking over their horizon. He's so still, so quiet, even his heartbeat seems quiet. It's as if all he wants is to melt into the wall and disappear. Be invisible.

The other is the opposite. He stands between of his companion and the gathered crowd, teeth bared and eyes blowing amber. He prowls the length of the cage in a way that's more animal than human, and it's clear with every movement that he makes that he's ready for a fight. Not just ready--he wants it.

He's the source of the hissing. It's wrong, on a fundamental level. Wolves don't hiss. It's as if his vocal cords are half-shifted themselves, unsure of where to go, and this is the result.

Bucky can hear the little grumble of a growl every once in a while, but it retreats quickly.

There's no humanity in his eyes. Only the fear and rage of a caged, abused animal.

He's feral, or close to it, and that thought has acid rising in Bucky's throat. A Omega in a place like this is the worst kind of transgression, but one that's turned feral because of it is a shame the world might never recover from.

There's blood is in the air. Fresh blood.

When the prowler turns to continue his march back across the room, Bucky spies the source. A wound on his leg, trickling down his calf. It isn't the only source, though.

Scenting the differences in blood in a confined space like this takes practice, but it's possible. If he concentrates, Bucky can detect two separate blood scents. Both of the Omegas are bleeding, but Bucky can't see the source on the Omega on the floor.

"They're injured," the Enforcer murmurs at this side, unnecessarily. "But we can't get in. When we try, that one raises hell."

The prowler, obviously.

"I thought I was making headway," he continues. "I thought he was gonna let me close, but then he saw..."

The Enforcer grimaces, holding up his bared forearm. He's a bitten wolf, turned months before. The scars from his attack are more faded than they would be on a human, but they stand out in stark contrast against his tanned skin. Jagged, silvery lines from a clawing, and the half moon imprint of a bite.

"He went ballistic when he saw it."

Bucky tilts his head, flicking his gaze between the scars to the prowling Omega. The Omega hisses again, spitting on the floor, his derision palpable.

He isn't certain, but Bucky thinks he understands.

"They don't trust humans," he murmurs. And then, as an afterthought, he added, "Clear the room."

It's more of a hallway than a room, but they get the idea. The humans grumble at being kicked off even a portion of their own crime scene, but they oblige. The Enforcer goes with them, because while not actually human, the bite damns him as being born one. It shouldn't matter, and usually, it doesn't. But it matters here, now, to these Omegas, and their opinion is more important than his own.

When it's just the three of them--Bucky and the two Omegas, separated only by iron bars--he takes off his jacket and folds it over his arm and then, to the bewilderment to both Omegas, he sits on the dusty floor.

He leans back against the wall opposite of the bars, as far away as he can get. It's not far, of course. When he stretches out his legs, he's only a foot away from touching metal with his shoes.

The prowling Omega pauses, his hissing dying out. He wavers, disoriented and confused.

"You're both injured," Bucky says calmly. "I'd like to see to that, but not until you're ready."

The blood scent isn't overpowering; neither of them are in danger of bleeding out. It's more important to earn their trust right now.

The prowler, unsure of what to do, lurches back into his pacing. He isn't vocally warning Bucky away anymore, but his body language still does.

Bucky focuses on the silent Omega. He tilts his head, meeting his bright eyes--the only part of his face that can currently be seen.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises. "You don't know me, but I'm an Alpha. I won't let anyone else hurt you. Not while I'm here."

The prowler stops again. It was that word--Alpha. They both know what it means.

There's nothing more sacred to an Alpha than an Omega. Wolves as a whole covet them, cherish them. But to Alphas, they are holy.

Bucky had hoped it would mean something to these two Omegas, that it might mean safety, and he's gratified that he isn't completely wrong. Slowly, so as not to startle either of them, he tosses his jacket in front of the bars.

"Go on," he says. "Take my scent."

The prowler snatches it through the bars, darting forward and away almost too quickly to follow. The fabric rips, caught on a nail, but Bucky isn't bothered. He'd rip a thousand jackets for an Omega's safety.

The prowler takes it to his companion, kneeling down beside him. The silent Omega takes a sleeve between slender fingers and buries his nose in it, breathing deeply enough that Bucky can hear it. After several long seconds, he offers it up to his companion, encouraging him to take the scent, too.

The prowler does, but it's clear he's reluctant. After scenting the jacket, the protector grumbles wordlessly, knocking his forehead into the blue-eyed Omega's. A tiny little smile answers the gesture.

It's only a few seconds of interaction, but enough to show the dynamic between them. The prowler is the protector, of course. Fierce and vigilant, a sentinel in the night. He defers to the blue-eyed Omega, though. It's obvious in the slump of his shoulder, the way he plops down on his ass with a huff.

They both look toward Bucky at the same time, and a thousand things are said in the silence between them.

Please don't hurt us, the blue-eyed Omega seems to say.

His companion's glare is more direct: Try to hurt him and I'll claw your eyes out.

After a moment, the prowler dips his chin once. It's barely perceptible, and hardly a nod at all, but Bucky was looking for it and he understands it for what it is.

Carefully, he stands and dusts off his slacks.

"Let's get you two out of there, hm?"

[sunnydaisy1]

Steve drabbles (1) -sorority girls-

STEVE ROGERS X F!READER

A/N: I’m kind of loving the idea of loads of steve drabbles in like one college au type thing- idk why but college!steve just makes me die. I also have not posted any work for literally almost 2 years lol. 

Summary: Nat has persuaded you to get Steve to convince some sorority girls to help with the art department bakesale (warnings: objectifying men lol)

You look down at your phone as you walk past the athletics centre, the time reading 7.47 am, and roll your eyes, mumbling frustrations at the godforsaken early hour, wishing you had grabbed a coffee before leaving.

Nat owed you big time for this and she can bet you’d be cashing in on that coffee later from her in the largest size possible.

She had come to you a week ago, asking for help over recruiting more people to help with the bake sale the art department was running.

She’d already managed to convince Bucky, Sam and Steve to sign up, a surprisingly easy task after trading them a burrito each from Taco Bell. Wanda and yourself were already a given, the 3 of you having been roomates for over 2 years.

Then, a day ago she had burst into your room, throwing herself dramatically on your bed, medical textbooks lying scattered around her head and lamented about the bake sale still being majorly understaffed- not a surprising turn of events since the art department consisted of about 5 senior students. She had then somehow concocted a plan to get some sorority girls to help, convincing you to talk Steve into persuading the girls who always do yoga near the sports track to help. She’d stated ‘one quick flash of those abs and pearly whites and they’ll be lapping out of his hand’.

You knew she was right- Steve’s adonis physique and glowing personality meant he was a bit of a god to the girls on campus. You had then complained about why you had to be the one to do it, and why Nat couldn't ask Steve herself. She had simply shot you a slightly menacingly mischievous grin and patted your head as you frowned at her, “Because dear y/n, Steve is like a lost puppy that would simply follow you to the ends of this earth.”

That was why you were trekking through the athletic grounds at a miserable time, hands pulled up into your sweatshirt sleeves. You rounded the corner and into the field where the track was located, knowing Steve had texted you he’d be here doing his morning training. You spotted him across on the other side, sporting a grey sports shirt and black shorts. How he had the energy every morning to put himself through this torture you didn’t know.

You walked to the brick building a little further along where Steve had dumped his stuff and put your hand above your eyes so you could scan the rest of the track, locating the group of lululemon clad sorority girls with their yoga mats spread out.

Steve soon slowed down beside you and you handed him his water bottle, “Morning Steve.”

He grinned before squirting some water into his mouth. “Morning y/n.” You tried to hold onto the annoyance surrounding the abandoning of your warm comfy duvet but felt it dissipate as his blue eyes met yours.

“Okay so clarify this to me again” he started, “you want me to go and flirt with the sorority girls to convince them to do Natasha’s bakesale?” The tone of his voice was laced with doubt, and you squinted up at him. “Yes. Well not me, Nat. According to her they'll be indefensible against your charm.” You held up air quotes around the last part and Steve's grin got even bigger.

“Okay, fair.” He paused for a second, eyes flicking over to the target before looking down at himself, “Are you sure I shouldn't change, I’m a little gross right now.”

“Adds to the charm.” You stated, patting Steve's upper arm and hating how you acknowledged the hardness of it. Steve's lips twitched with amusement at your comment, placing his water back in his bag. “Okay then.”

You rolled your eyes at him, “When you get over there just like lift your shirt up or something and wipe your face with it. Flex a bicep here or there and we’ll be all set.” Steve watched you with a grin and crossed his arms over his chest, “I know how to flirt y/n.”

“I'm sure you do Stevie just tips ya know, I've seen the way Bucky flirts sometimes.” You say, shrugging in a faux nonchalantly manner.

Steve gives you a look before his eyes flick to something beside your head. You furrow your brow as his hand reaches up and he takes a step forward, a waft of musky sandalwood drifting over you. He pulls something out of your hair and tucks it behind your ear, looking straight into your eyes.

Your heart has picked up to a million miles a minute, a familiar feeling around Steve. His eyes have a sort of twinkle to them and he winks, leaning back and stretching up, linking his hands above his head, “you had something in your hair.” he simply states and you feel your eyes flick down to the strip of skin Steve has exposed from his shirt riding up, the god like abs Nat was talking about peeking from underneath and you swear you see them flex slightly before you rip your eyes back to Steve's face. He had a triumphantly smug look and you feel your face redden further as you realise what he's done and give him a shove, “I hate you.”

Steve chuckles and shoots you another heart wrenchingly gorgeous smile, not helping your flustered state to decrease. “No you don't. Anyway, why do I have to be the one to do this? Why can't you ask them?”

“Objectifying men.” You beam up at him and he wrinkles his nose.

He rolls his eyes and sighs, starting to walk away from you cheekily saluting “You're lucky I'd do anything for you.”

Your stomach lurches at his statement, the words echoing Nat's previous comment and making your heart ache just a little more.

Steve does a few jumping jacks before jogging over to the girls. You roll your eyes at his actions, squinting as you watch him. The girls instantly perk up at they spot him and a few adjust their sports bras and leggings. You snort at that and observe as Steve talks to them, moving his hands around a bit. The girls are all nodding their heads and giggling, making your brow crease a little and stomach sink slightly.

Then, you watch closely as he pulls the trick you said, lifting his shirt up to wipe his face and you swear you can feel the pheromones euxding from the girls as he does so. You squint as a brunette places her hand on Steve’s bicep and he throws his head back with laughter, clutching his chest. Your mouth downturns slightly, and you pull your eyes away from the scene to look at the notification from Nat.

Nat: hope your enjoying oggling steve ;))

You huff and start furiously typing, conveying to Nat how dearly she owed you for this. A shadow comes over your phone and you look up, Steve picking his bag up.

“They agreed to do it and said they’d bake some bits to bring.” He states with a slight frown.

“A job well done.” You say, patting him on his shoulder as he walks with you out of the athletic field.

“I feel dirty.” He grumbles, “like a piece of meat.”

You laugh at that and he watches you with a slight smile twitching on his lips “Time for coffee?” He asks, pulling out his own phone, eyes focused on his screen as you look at him.

“Fuck yes,” You say, “we can even get a juice for you.” Steve grins as that, nudging your arm with his.

[jbbarnes]

@brooklynsoul : “We can’t go back to who we were before.”

A deep hum was his only response for a moment, his fingers continuing their slow journey through Steve's hair, strands racing against his skin. It was shorter than many of his memories, but it didn't make much of a difference to Bucky. It felt like a gift either way, that he could do this. Sit here with Steve's head in his lap, a book abandoned by his side as they just enjoyed each other's company.

"I wanted to, for a long time," he murmured, scratching lightly against Steve's scalp, as if he were an oversized house cat. "I wanted to be the man you lost. But then I realised that if I was still that guy, I wouldn't be here. I'd'a gone home after the war if I lived that long, probably married someone, had two and half kids. But I wouldn't have this."

He gave a gentle tug of Steve's hair, a smile on his face.

"I'm not saying I'm happy for everything that happened to me, or you," he continued. "If I coulda protected you from all that, I would've. But we're here. We're safe. And we can be who we are without worrying. I'm thankful for that, at least."

[americasfineasscaptain]

Lost Nomad

Steve had gone back. Had placed each stone so carefully. Bit by bit. Reset the timeline so that his past could continue. It was space that was last. And space where he was captured. Dragged away by strange men with unnerving unnatural suits. Sent to a prison that should have been a paradise, but twisted.

Through the looking glass indeed, he thought, trying to escape. To return to the family he belonged to. Instead, he was captured again. Unable to fight back as they chased him. Forced him to flee when nothing he could do would phase them. Helpless to do anything to fight back. Captured again and again. Wondering if this is how Bucky had felt all those decades ago when Steve had been frozen. He wondered if the others would miss him or if they thought he would abandon them. Unaware of the false flag that the monsters had planted.

Fighting to get home. To go back to the time he belonged. Not to the past, where the dead lay buried, but to the future where his loved ones still lived. Fighting to hold his friends close and tell them how much he loved them. Fighting to be able to lay down his arms for a time of peace he so desperately ached for.

@winterexinferna

[marvelmyriad]

@serumxbuilt

For as long as Bucky had known Steve, that smile of his had always been enough to light up a room.  The gentle lines that appeared at the corners of the other man’s blue eyes could still make his knees feel weak.  He’d dreamt of this moment, literally and figuratively.  In the days before Bucky had fully come back to himself, he’d found himself waking at times with a bittersweet pain sitting upon his heart.  He would dream of music of a time lost, the crackle of a needle upon a record radiating through every note.  Everything always felt so tangible, right down to the dim lights and the scent of cigarettes and perfume.  The old club held only two people; himself, and a man that he didn’t even remember for years.  He’d seen that face every time his nightmares threw him from that train again, and he saw him every time his mind had been merciful enough to bring him to that club instead.

It would always end the same though.  The two would close the space between them and neither of them would speak a word as they begun to sway along to the music.  He always felt a sense of peace.  After he’d remembered who Steve was, it all made perfect sense.  Before then though, he would wake up with questions that he wasn’t sure he’d ever have the answers to.

This time though, it was real.  Where they were didn’t matter, it never had before after all.  Whether it be a bombed out pub, an abandoned farm house or a one room apartment with only a bed to lay on…they were just fine as long as they had one another.  He remembered promising to take Steve dancing when the war ended and they came home.  When they had been torn away from one another, his mind had held on so tightly to that promise that even in the depths of pure hell, he had conjured dreams of it.

Bucky allowed his head to rest upon Steve’s shoulder and he had his arms gently wrapped around the other man’s torso.  It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to be so unguarded.  Even when he wasn’t operating on a mission, he rarely actually relaxed.  As the music surrounded them and they swayed lightly with each other, the tension stored in his shoulders fell away.  He felt a sense of fulfillment, and astonishment that the two of them had managed to find one another again after so many years.  

When the music faded away and the track came to a close, he moved to meet Steve’s gaze, though he maintained their closeness.  A smile tugged at his lips.  “Should’ve taken ya dancin’ a long time ago…”

There was a weight that seemed to lift off their shoulders. The change in the times, but also circumstance gave them a safety they didn't have the first time. They had made it work how they needed to. The alternative was not have one another at all or risk being found out...Not something either of them had wanted.

Steve and Bucky had learned to be content before...Because safety for one another had required them to do so. Not anymore. At most...Now he only had to worry about possibly...Bucky's kids. Though he supposed both of them were hardly kids anymore. And e knew now that Natasha knew about him, and had always longed and hoped for Bucky to find Steve after all. So why was he so nervous?

The easy answer was the fear of the unknown. This was all new to Steve, and he wasn't entirely sure how any of this was supposed to work. But there was a second, deeper answer. That one...Was the fear of losing Bucky all over again. Now that he had him, he couldn't shake that soul crushing fear that he would somehow, someway...Lose Bucky again.

When the brunette pulled away, he wanted to follow him, but instead, he stayed on the sofa, watching as he moved over to a corner of the room by the stereo, and began poking away at a laptop until the speakers in the room lit up the room with a very familiar song. He smiled, a toothy grin as Bucky crossed back over to the sofa and held his hand out. "I thought you'd never ask."

Steve wasn't good at dancing, but he was hardly after any sort of formal dancing. When he moved to the center of the room with Bucky, he picked a simple dancing stance, though it looked more like the two men holding one another. Steve felt Bucky's soft hair and smiled as he held the other close to him. He was sure he wouldn't feel content about letting him go for some time. Perhaps the whole song even.

[rassvetsky]

there's bucky on your masterlist so here i go, bucky hiding and taking care of reader when the reader is being searched for? maybe the reader is a former enhanced soldier or something like that too. i hope i made myself clear lol thanks!

tysm for the request!! im actually so happy that i got a bucky barnes request hehe (and this specific anon sent me another ask with a pt. 2 idea are they perhaps an angel.)

Lost & Found

bucky barnes x gn!reader

it takes one brainwashed soldier to find another.

[3.6k] | ex hydra!reader, mentions of torture, mentions of brainwashing, mentions of murder, being chased, trust issues, traumatized reader, my poor english skills & bucky being a sweetheart. pt. 2 later maybe??

reblog and/or like for a kiss, feedback much appreciated! not proofread.

Your legs felt like they could give out any minute, your lungs burning with the lack of oxygen. You didn't feel like you had enough time for a deep breath as your feet carried you forward, making you feel a bit dizzy and disconnected. The relief of knowing kept you sane, however. Knowing where you were, what you were doing, who you were.

God, you missed knowing who you were.

Before it all, you were an excellent Intelligence Officer, under SHIELD's wing. Kept your personal life and job far away from one another, divided by a three-meter long rampier. Came back from work to a quiet, warm apartment where you could finally relax and unwind.

That was until during one mission, everything went downhill and you lost contact with the rest of your team- your tracker was broken to pieces after the fall, your body covered in debris. And even though you expected to see familiar faces when you finally opened your eyes with a pained grunt, you only saw the muzzles of a few guns pointed at you, before you blacked out again.

That's where a brand new chapter in your life started, erasing each and every single one behind.

Memories of the past few years were reduced to snippets of gore. Your blood, mixed against someone else's. Torture, inflicted by you, or to you. Information that didn't belong to you instilled in your brain. You didn't have a say in it. You couldn't, because how could anyone stand their ground against scary men with weapons bigger than themselves?

It took them a long while to trust you with missions. Your mind refused to let them in at first, knowing exactly what was to come. Exactly what they were trying to create out of you. You held on for as long as you could, no matter how painful it was because you still knew that even if you cooperated, they'd still hurt you, just to break into the barriers of the human mind.

When they started making progress with the brainwashing period, the training period started. That part was a bit rushed, you were a needed asset and you couldn't be kept in a base forever. Certain missions were supposed to be completed, and most of the time, they weren't that hard on you. Even though they didn't let you go on every single mission, the ones you went on were exactly what you were trained for. Infiltrate, execute, abandon. Nothing big. Get back to the base, and wait. Until next time that they'd need you.

You didn't plan on going back. Not anymore.

And that's why when the base got raided down, you didn't stay to help. You didn't stay to be rescued, even though you knew exactly who was behind the raid and they could definitely help. Through the sound of bullets shooting through, walls being broken down, and screams of pure agony, you still ran, far away from anyone that could recognize you.

But Bucky did.

You gave him the push to escape after the Battle of Triskelion, and still, let him go. Told him to never come back, no matter what. Didn't tell anyone.

He wanted to come back for you, he tried to; but you were moved away before he could get to you. And with that, you were a ghost again. Untraceable. Back to square one, former intelligence officer of SHIELD that got 'killed' after a certain job. Someone who knew too much, someone nobody dared to look for.

He tried to get his hands on everything he could find about you. The school you went to, your late family, former co-workers; everything. Intervention after intervention, at some point, he finally stopped chasing after a ghost, taking Steve's advice. But even when nobody saw you run, he did, and he would recognize you anywhere. Just like you did for him years ago, he let you go, and didn't tell anyone.

It took you a while to get back to your senses. Your brain desperately wanted you to go back to the base, just because you got used to it all. It was a constant battle between knowing you should never go back to that hell, and feeling worthless unless you do.

You knew that couldn't just resurface after all those years, after everything you've done. After everything they made you do. Even though you didn't have a say in anything, you were still the one who pulled the trigger, and you wouldn't exactly blame anyone for thinking that you changed your side on purpose, brainwashed or not.

And back to the moment, as everything you've been through flashed before your eyes, you kept running. It was the desire to stay alive that kept you up on your feet, that let you run even faster than you thought you could.

Out of all the other places, you didn't expect to be found in Slovakia, and honestly, you weren't even sure who it was behind you, but you still ran through the empty streets in the night, footsteps as quiet as they could get as you pushed yourself forward with every ounce of power left in your body.

But the sound of the motorcycle engine kept drawing closer and closer, as you held onto the straps of your backpack tighter and kept going. The pads of your feet, your calves, they all hurt but you weren't going to stop now. Not that easy. And when you finally saw your figure shadowing the motorcycle's headlight, you reached for your pistol, silencer worn.

The engine stopped. You stopped. And for a moment, nobody dared to make a move. Not even a sound was spared through the quiet nature of the night before you slowly turned around, pistol pointed towards the driver. Tactical outfit, fully black as if he wanted to blend in with the shadows, just like you. He seemed muscular, biceps visible through the thick material. And he just stood there, not even daring to draw a weapon. Just stared, you assumed, behind the helmet.

"I'm going to ask this once," you spoke up, voice raspy and a bit out of breath. "and you're not getting more than ten seconds to answer. Make a move, you're dead." you took a few steps towards him, shaky hand clutching the cold metal weapon so tight that you felt like it wasn't even shaking anymore. "Who are you?"

He didn't answer at first. Just reached for his helmet, as slowly as he could, before lifting it off his head. Brown, medium-length hair fell against his face before he pushed them behind, and a pair of eyes locked gaze with yours. You could see him with the street light's contribution, and the face was way too familiar, so you figured he was one of the-

Oh.

Of course.

Those steel blue eyes. You'd recognize them anywhere. "Got your answer?" he spoke, for the first time, and his voice erased every single one of your suspicions. It was him. The one and only, Winter Soldier, most important asset of HYDRA. The one you were sent a hundred times to clean up after, to protect, to report to. Only he could be dumb enough to come back for you, even when you specifically told him not to.

"Asset."

The long motorcycle ride didn't help with your exhaustion, it only added to the fuel in the end. No words were spared until he led you to an empty apartment and locked the door behind the two of you, as you dropped your backpack on the couch before sitting down with a grunt. The place seemed quite rundown and empty, it was even cold. You didn't let your attention linger for any longer though, as your gaze fell to the hardwood ground beneath your feet.

Feeling his eyes on you, you decided to keep asking your questions until you could feel satisfied. Until you could feel trust forming. "How'd you find me?" you asked, watching him as he handed you a bottle of water, which he took from the console by the side of the room. He didn't speak until you took a few sips -which kind of made your throat hurt after all those hours of endless running and gasping for air-, taking a seat on the couch right by the side of yours, leaning back with a sigh of comfort.

"Let's just say I know the path a brainwashed soldier would follow," his tone was soft, almost as if he was trying to assure you that he wasn't posing as a threat here. He was on your side, his eyes desperately tried to tell you that. They held a glint of sympathy and understanding that you haven't seen from him before, back then you only knew him as HYDRA's fucktoy, held up to a certain importance which didn't keep him off from torture by any means. "You weren't easy to find, I'll give you that-"

"Why?" you blurted out, elbows against your knees as you buried your face in your palms. It all hurt- your brain felt like it was way bigger than your skull and you swore you could feel the pressure against the bone. Your throat was still sore, your legs felt numb and you just wanted to keep your eyes closed for a week straight. And through it all, you knew it wasn't worth it to go through all of that trouble, just to find you. You couldn't help but wonder if he had other plans with you, but for some reason, a voice in your head kept telling you to trust him. "Why would you even fucking bother?"

"Why did you bother?" he snapped back, one side of his lips tugged upward in a cheshire-like grin, just a bit more friendly than that. "I'm just paying you back." you didn't answer that, not exactly knowing what to say. You just exhaled through your mouth, looking up at him after a while of contemplating everything.

"I don't even know your name. You're just- Winter Soldier. The Asset, for me."

"I know yours."

"That's just creepy." and he chuckled at that, amused.

"It's Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Kind of surprised I wasn't the first thing you looked up after escaping." you shook your head, only able to offer a poor excuse of a smile as you rose up to your feet, all-tactical outfit not comfortable in the slightest bit.

You didn't tell him that you barely had an hour to sit down, the paranoia of being found eating you alive as you kept yourself in the shadows.

"I'm going to take a shower. And go to sleep. Don't make me regret trusting you, Barnes."

Let's just say, he didn't make you regret trusting him one bit. The two of you remained hidden for a couple of days in Slovakia, before escaping to Romania through the Hungarian border. It was an almost an eight-hour drive including your stops and the detours -and God, it made you hate motorcycles- before you two reached a safer spot -in his words-, to plan what to do next.

Bucky knew that the Avengers wouldn't trust you at first. For all the right reasons, obviously, he wasn't even sure why he trusted you in the first place. You just had something about you, a light in your eyes that still persisted, gentleness in your movement. He saw himself in you.

You weren't exactly in a condition where you could trust anyone either, you knew that the Avengers weren't the bad guys, not in the slightest, but you knew what kind of judgment you were going to face. The man helping you hide told you all about the judgment he went through. The fight between Stark and Rogers, how things that happened outside of his control caused a turmoil of events which eventually led to almost being killed by an Avenger. Not that Stark was wrong whatsoever, but you both knew that if HYDRA wanted you to do something, you would do it. Because the consequences would be far more horrendous.

And honestly, after all of that trauma, you weren't sure you could go through another set of people telling you that you're a disgusting murderer, nothing above an asset, nothing more than a toy. An evil being by choice.

And sure, you weren't former best friends with Steve fucking Rogers, you and Bucky barely knew one another. It only made sense for you to fear whatever it is that could come from the Avengers. "You know, you can't be on the run forever," Bucky absent-mindedly mumbled when you two were relaxing by the couch one day, while snacking on the leftover fries you ignored earlier, as you kept your eyes on the cartoon playing on the screen.

"Nothing else that I can do," you shrugged, reaching for his lap to steal a piece of food. He kept looking at you, this couldn't be kept up forever. The Avengers kept asking him where he was and what he was doing, and just for the sake of you, he had been lying to his friends for weeks now.

"Look, even if nobody else does, Sam and Steve would trust you," he huffed out, trying to reason with you. He understood the paranoia that kept you on the edge, but it wasn't like you were completely helpless. "Can't we give it a try?"

"If you want to leave so bad, Barnes, just go. You don't have to drag me along." you sighed, tucking your feet under your body to keep them warm. "I'm so grateful for everything you've done but please, I won't need your protection forever."

"And I know you don't, sweetheart," he wasn't giving it up, not that easy. Getting a hold of your wrist, he tried to tug you a bit closer. "But you need to trust me, yeah? Nobody's going to judge you while I'm here, not like they judged me. I'll make sure of that."

At that, you finally looked at him, heaving yet another sigh before reaching in to wrap your arms around his neck.

That was new.

You buried your head on his shoulder, eyes closed as you felt his arms wrap around your figure, too. His embrace was warm, humane, and so foreign that it made you flinch against his figure at first. Even though you fought against the trauma, it had still been years since you've had anyone touch you in a friendly way. "It's not that I don't trust you," you whispered. "I'm just afraid of everything going downhill again and- and ending up exactly where I started."

Bucky felt your pain in his chest, too. "That's not going to happen," he whispered back, reassuringly patting your back. "Not while you got me by your side. And if you'll only let me, Sam and Steve, too. Nothing you've done is unredeemable, there's nothing to be ashamed of." he pulled you away a bit, just to have you looking at him. "This isn't nearly as safe as where I want us both to be. Nobody can hurt you there. We'll- we'll find a way to get rid of the nightmares, the guilt- everything."

You could only nod as an answer, already -mentally- exhausted by everything that had been going on. You leaned on him for a while longer as he held you, whispering things in your ear that felt just right to hear. Some way, somehow; he knew exactly how to keep your mind at the moment, rather than in the past. He knew exactly how to remind you that it was all behind you now, and you only had the moment and the future coming after.

A few more days passed until you gave in and let him give the infamous Captain America and the Falcon a call, you specifically waited in your room until his conversation with them would be over because you didn't feel like you could handle the slightest bit of distress on his face at that moment. Your worries proved themselves to be unnecessary though, as Bucky burst into the room after a few minutes, relief clear on his face.

"Steve said he'll talk to Tony," he hummed, settling down on the bed right next to you. "Tony can be a bit suspicious of literally anything, but he means well. Hopefully, they'll arrange a ride for us and we'll be on our way, alright?"

"Right," you noted, a timid smile on your lips as you reached for his hand, holding it between both of your palms. "Thank you, Bucky."

"Anything for you."

You noticed how time would pass a bit faster in the Avengers Compound, as you were surrounded by things to spend your day with. You often found yourself in the training room, taking your frustrations out from a poor punching bag -which you started to feel bad for, even though it was clearly inanimate- or watching whatever movie you could find.

You didn't really talk to anyone else other than Bucky, and they didn't push it. After a few interrogation sessions -which Steve assured you that they were done just to learn more about what HYDRA did to you-, you were finally left alone -at least a little bit-, deciding to spend your time trying to get to know these people. You knew they used to work for SHIELD as well, but you never personally worked with them.

You found it easy to be comfortable with Natasha, she wasn't the most emotionally available person ever but she understood what you went through.

She'd try to drag you along to get-togethers, brush out your hair when you felt too out-of-it to do so, and sometimes even sit with you through a movie.

Sam was a bit harder to be around, but he was way too sweet for his own good. He did almost everything in his power to get you to play table tennis with him and to make it a usual "Y/N and Sam time" event, and it meant the world if he could get a smile out of your mostly-neutral expressions.

Steve was patient. He was easy to talk to, and easy to be around. And you knew that it was him who trusted you the most, after Bucky. He made sure you didn't skip any meals and kept your training up just so you wouldn't fall behind.

"If you want to redeem yourself," he said one day, after a particularly exhausting session, "You could help around in the Compound, or with missions. Not saying you have to, but if you ever wanted to, I'd love for you to tag along."

You were forever grateful.

The rest took a bit longer to give you the benefit of the doubt, but your fears diminished with time. There were certain ground rules -such as an alert system going off whenever you left your room, and of course, any sharp objects were kept far, far away from you- but finally, you were above a freak. A murderer.

After one long day, while everyone was huddled up in a room to watch a basketball game -which, according to Sam, was the most important thing to happen in the past few years-, you decided to get some fresh air and join them later.

Stepping out of the compound building, you sighed contently, the late night breeze waking your entire being up successfully. You paced around by yourself for a small while, before hearing the sliding door open, a smile making its way to your face almost immediately when you noticed it was Bucky. "Hey, you," he walked towards you, hands tucked tight in his jeans pockets.

You kept your eyes on him, expression soft and relaxed -which, Bucky wasn't used to seeing, but he could admit that it was one of the most beautiful sights he laid his eyes on-. "Aren't you gonna watch the game?"

"You weren't there, so," he shrugged, earning a subtle chuckle from you. It was then, that he reached for you and wrapped his flesh arm around your shoulder, tucking you close to his chest. "I'm glad you're here, you know?"

"Me too," you leaned against him, wrapping your own arms around his waist loosely as you looked up at the stars, at the moon. You were sure Bucky was the one to hang it there. "I'll- I'll get back on my feet as quickly as I can. And then I'll be of use, I promise."

"You don't have to rush," he snickered against your hair. "Let yourself heal. It's just nice to know that you're safe."

You slightly pulled away from him, hand against his chest as you looked up at his eyes. They were shining in all the right ways, reminding you where home was. By his side.

Now or never, you thought, before raising yourself a bit on your feet and planting your lips against his, unable to break away from the tentative kiss even after a few moments as he held you there. As he kissed you back. And he was so gentle as if you were made out of porcelain; soft lips brushing against yours with a meek passion. Each and every touch of his lips added fuel to the wildfire burning through your insides, keeping you warm through the breeze. You held his face in your palms as he tucked you closer to his body, both of you smiling against the kiss until it broke away.

"I've been planning on doing that for weeks." he breathed out, chuckling to himself in disbelief as he shook his head. "So thanks, for stealing my idea."

"Oh shush."

[certifiedskywalker]

Trouble Doubled - Bucky Barnes

Even after everything, you’re still the person who Bucky Barnes runs to when things go bad. Only now, he brings Sam who fails to hide his grin when he sees how James melts under your touch.

WARNINGS: Blood, stitches, and TFATWS possible spoilers (I think I was vague enough)

“Ouch! That’s going to hurt in the morning!”

“Ha, it hurts now, actually,” Sam grumbled. 

You pressed your lips together to stifle the grin that threatened to spill over them. Unable to help yourself, you glanced at Bucky in the hopes he too was biting back a grin. Stood by the door, slightly shrouded in shadow, you could make out the half smile that played on his lips. Though, his expression quickly melted into a grimace as Sam groaned. Reality quickly crashed back down on your shoulders and you turned back to the man laid on the table.

“You’re not going to like this.” Before Sam could ask what ‘this’ was, you began to palpate his wound. He flinched away from your reach at first, but then settled in the discomfort.

“Mm, yeah, no, that doesn’t feel good, Doc.”

“Not a doctor,” you said, still pressing lightly into the bruised flesh. “And I have to make sure you didn’t crack a rib. Otherwise, you’ll need a doctor.”

“Gotta work on your bedside manner,” Sam said as he winced. You pulled your hands away with a sigh and he met your eyes. “Bad?”

“In the grand scheme of things, no. Just try not to throw yourself off a building for the next few days. Think you guys can manage that?”

“Maybe. Harder to fly without jumping first.” Sam groaned once more as he sat up and the pain seemed to convince him to heed your warning. “We’ll try, Doc.”

You rolled your eyes at him before turning to look at Bucky. Still tucked in the darker corner of the room, he seemed small. His brows were knitted tightly together by worry and you imagined that, if he met your gaze, you would see concern in his eyes. Pushed forward by your own worry, you strode over to him. At your growing closeness, Bucky lifted his eyes to yours.

“Your turn.”

“I’m fine, Y/N.”

Despite his protest, Bucky did not lock himself in place. Instead, he gave in and let you lead him by the arm, over to the table. Sam eyed him with a wide grin as Bucky landed in the same spot he had sat in only moments ago. He mouthed something to the century-old soldier that you caught, but could not make out.

“What happened to taking it easy? You told me after, you know, that you would ease into things.” You gestured to the rags you had used to clean Sam’s more minor wounds; the fabric pieces were now dyed a reddish pink from blood. “That doesn’t seem like easing into it.”

“You didn’t see the other guy,” Sam quipped. 

“I like to think you didn’t leave any of him left,” you fired back as you pinched Bucky’s chin between your forefinger and thumb. “Look at me.”

Bucky did as you told him to and met your gaze. You took a sharp breath in at the sight of him, at how his pupils blew out slightly as you studied his reaction. All at once, the air around you grew thick. This close, you could smell the sweat and ash on his skin, along with hints of whatever air freshener he had in his apartment. 

Was it coconut? Sandalwood? You couldn’t parse out which as you found yourself lost in the blues of Bucky’s eyes. The sound of Sam clearing his throat shook you from your haze.

“No signs of a concussion.”

“Really?” Sam asked, grin still plastered on his face. You raised a brow at him in question before you turned back to Bucky. 

“Why? Did you hit your head?”

“No,” he said, clearly tired of Sam’s commentary, “but if I did, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Super soldier or not, a head wound is a head wound. Can you?” You gestured to his jacket and, with a sigh, Bucky pulled it off his shoulders.

“How do you two know each other again?” Sam asked, glancing around the room. “And why are we in an abandoned building.”

“Hard to trace us back here. Didn’t want to lead them to Y/N’s place,” Bucky said, tossing his jacket to the side. He winced as he did, and then you saw the blood.

“Barnes!" 

With reaching hands, you peeled back the crimson-soaked material of his shirt. Your movement revealed a long gash along his side that, with each breath, sent dribbles of blood to his hip. Sam made a sound of surprise and mild disgust at the sight. You were inclined to agree with another shout, but you were too caught up in how to stop the bleeding.

“Lay back,” you ordered, pressing Bucky’s shoulder. He yielded and you pushed his shirt up to expose the entire length of the wound. “Why didn't you show this to me earlier?!”

“It’s not that bad.”

"You're bleeding," you huffed, "which is pretty indicative of bad, if you ask me. Sam?"

"This is not my battle,” he raised his hands and shook his head. “I know better than to intrude on a lover’s quarrel.”

Neither you nor Bucky spoke up to correct him. In your mind, you came up with a quick excuse: Bucky was bleeding and you needed to focus on stopping it. Sam’s comment could be corrected later. Though, when Bucky didn’t speak up, you felt your chest tighten. As you worked on dressing the gash, you glanced up at him and found his blue eyes trained on you. He was dwelling on your silence too.

You pulled yourself out of the whirlpool of his gaze and reached over his body towards your medical supplies. As you stretched, your chest pressed lightly against Bucky’s, but you swallowed hard and refocused.

“Sorry, need to sow you up.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but he did avert his gaze. He found some spot in the ceiling to stare at instead of you. His distraction allowed you to work without the prickling temptation to sneak glances at his features; for the most part. It was only when Sam moved to stand over at your side you did you look up from Bucky’s wound.

“What?”

“Nothing, just wondering how many times you’ve done this before.” 

A bitter laugh slipped past your lips at his reply. “Too many times to count. If it’s not an Avenger, it’s a masked savior from Hell’s Kitchen. Someone always needs stitched up.”

“But James here is your favorite patient?”

“Sam.” 

Bucky’s tone set you on edge. It was warning, cold, and unlike the teasing you had grown fond of. Sam, knowing better than to piss him off, backed away from the table. You looked from him to Bucky and back again. When Bucky did not dare to meet your gaze, you felt a lump form in your throat. Tension weighed down your tongue, stopped you from saying a word or asking a question, despite your want to. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you be, old man. I’ll check with Torres, see if he has anything.”

Bucky’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling above you. He was quiet, like the first time you met, and distant. His gaze seemed far away, as if he were looking through the ceiling of this hideaway. After you heard the door of the room close behind Sam, you went back to work on Bucky’s side in silence. 

Carefully, you sowed the gash and tried to keep your hands steady. Every other jab with the needle made Bucky wince. You flinched at his sharp intake of breath and mumbled an apology before you went on to the next stitch. Five apologies later, the bleeding slowed and you gently pressed a crisp, white bandage to safeguard your handiwork. 

Immediately after you secured the gauze, Bucky moved to sit up. Before he could, you pressed on his shoulders again and pinned him in place. Though, you knew you couldn’t have pinned him if he hadn’t let you. Your upper body strength was nothing compared to his, you both knew that.

“Don’t move,” you said softly, “you’ll ruin my work.”

“It’s gonna be hard not to.” Bucky met your gaze and, in the dim light of the room, his eyes looked dark, almost sad. Something in his face, perhaps the dull, yet familiar laughter lines around his mouth or the bags under his eyes, alleviated the tension that had silenced before.

“You told me you wouldn’t. That you would take it easy and focus on making amends.”

Bucky closed his eyes at the disappoint that laced your tone. “I tried. I wanted to, Hell, I need to, but I can’t. I never could.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky began to sit up from the table top, “I’m a soldier. I need the fight.”

You watched as he moved, as your hands slipped from his shoulders and fell back to your sides. He pulled his shirt down over his freshly bandaged wound. When he was covered, Bucky looked back up to you, saw your frown and frowned too.

“Soldiers get to come home,” you pointed out, arms crossed over your chest.

“If they’re lucky. I’ve never been lucky.”

You bit the inside of your cheek at that. He was right. Bucky told you his story once before, after a therapy session left him feeling a bit more dry than high. He told you that he couldn’t tell you everything, that he wouldn’t. He didn’t have to, but you still hoped for him.

“Luck can change.”

Bucky scoffed as he pushed himself to his feet. Now, at his full height, he towered slightly over you. Despite his looming figure, Bucky did not scare you. Even when he told you his story, what he had done, Bucky did not scare you. 

“Yeah, well, luck, or fate, or whatever, brought me to you and here we are,” he gestured to the dusty dwelling around you. You looked around with a careful eye before you playfully shrugged. 

“I’ve been in worse dives.” Bucky chuckled, a unforced sound that rose up from his chest against his will. “Really, I have.”

“I don’t doubt it. But we put you in danger, asking for your help here. I put you in danger.”

“Oh, are you serious?” You threw your hands up in the air, “there’s always going to be danger in this world. Aliens, war, bad luck.”

“I wanted to keep you safe,” he pressed, taking a step towards you. 

You could smell the perfume of the air freshener again, how it clung to his clothes. It distracted you, threw you into thoughts of what his apartment looked like, if he would ever share that part of him with you or if he would keep it locked away with his full story. You bit your tongue to keep yourself from asking, from wasting your breath on a question he wouldn’t answer. His words would have to be enough for you and, as if on cue, Bucky echoed his sentiment. 

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“How noble, wanting to keep me safe, Barnes. Just me?” 

Silence was your immediate answer. Silence and Bucky’s full attention. You didn’t miss how his eyes flickered down from yours to your lips then back again.

“Just you.”

In the quiet that followed Bucky’s statement, you became frighteningly aware of your heartbeat again. It wasn’t pounding like before, but it felt loud, like it was pressing against your ribcage, begging to leap out and into Bucky’s arms. As if propelled by it, you found yourself leaning in towards his warmth just as he seemed to shrink away.

Before he was out of reach, you lifted your hands to his face and cupped his jaw. Stubble prickled your fingers and palm, though you were far too enraptured to care.

“Then stay alive,” you said softly, “change your luck and come home.”

In your mind, you did not picture Bucky’s home as his mystery apartment. Instead, you saw only this moment captured by some invisible third party. You saw home as just the two of you and the image made you heart beat a bit faster. 

“I’ll try.”

“Good.” 

For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other, stewed in the new, easier tension between you. But then your resolve broke and you lips broke into a smile. Bucky mirrored your expression, a lopsided grin resting comfortably along his features. His eyes fell to the floor between you before he looked back into your face.

“Can...can I kiss y-”

“Yes, Barnes, please.”

Without wasting another second, Bucky leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. Your hands slipped from his jaw to the back of his head where your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his brown hair. One of his hands found your waist and pulled you close to him, while the other cupped your jaw. In sync, his mouth moved against yours and everything around you melted away.

No more wonderings or mystery. It was only you and Bucky, come danger, trouble, or bad luck; and Sam who lingered outside the door.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

A Bad Day

You woke this morning with a heavy weight in your chest. Like lead settled in your bones overnight. A fresh dose of sadness in your bloodstream. 

You weren't sure what brought this on. Sometimes it was a mission gone wrong. Or you'd learned gruesome, terrible historical event. Sometimes it was simply because you felt like you'd always be just a little out of step with the rest of the world. 

It almost always started out as one singular reason. One identifiable catalyst. But like a dam bursting, all of the other reasons flooded your brain, leaving you drowning in massive emotions and crippling sorrow. 

The bone-shattering crash after flying so high for so long was always brutal. A cruel reminder of when you were pulled apart and all but abandoned. 

The world seemed too big, moved too fast, burned too bright.

The more you learned the less you knew. 

You remember hearing from somewhere that this depression, this ache was like a little black dog that followed you everywhere. And most days, you could ignore it. But today, it felt like an overwhelming beast, a massive three headed dragon that you were left to fight all alone. 

Maybe it was a culmination of cracks in the emotional dam that you ignored for too long. Or maybe it was that you were waking up alone for the third day in a row. Or maybe it was just one of those days and it was pointless to try and figure out why. 

There were a lot of feelings, all pummeling you all at once, so quickly and so intensely that you're unable to compartmentalize and cope. 

For one, you felt unwanted. And it was something you had to reconcile over and over. You were unwanted since the day you were born. Your parents gave you up, places that helped children in need didn't want you. It took you just over two decades to find somewhere you belonged. And today, it didn't even feel like you belonged here either. 

Second, you felt like an open wound. Festering. Worsening with each tick of time. The scars of your past unbearably ached and throbbed. Constantly torn between a past you resented and a future that was terrifyingly unrecognizable. 

Third, you didn't think you were entirely cut out for this. On days like today, you didn't feel particularly incredible. Not strong or smart. You felt permanently left behind. 

You always wondered what would become of you once you lost your novelty. How long would it be cute that you were so far behind? When would those quirks become annoying at best and at worse a liability? Would they miss you once they pushed you off the precarious pedestal they put you on? Or would they just replace you with the next ingenue?

Bucky's antsy as the jet lands in the Compound hangar. For one, he's been on assignment for three days. But also, It's almost midday and he has yet to hear from you.

He wraps up his debrief at record-breaking speed, discarding his gear in his room where you're presence is not even remotely detectable, it's odd considering you once told him you like to sleep in his room when he's gone for more than a day or two. You're also not wandering the Compound like you do on your days off. There's an absence of you that's just a little too unsettling as he makes his way to your room. 

It's even more odd when he finds Sam leaning up against your bedroom door, his arms crossed as he waits there. Bucky's immediately concerned, "What's going on?"

"It's a bad day," Sam mutters, his mouth twisting in remorse. 

"A bad day?"

"It happens," Sam vaguely offers. 

Bucky's eyebrows furrow at the way Sam talks about this like it's a normal occurrence. "Are you going to explain or...?"

Sam's head lolls as he tries to think about the best way to explain. "She's - it's - it's like," he sighs. "A person can only bottle some much before it all comes out, you know? With the shit she's been through, I wouldn't blame her if most days were like this, but every once in a while it hits her all at once. And it hits her hard. Her record is three days like this in her room."

"Three days?"

"There's not much anyone can say to make it better right now."

"She hasn't left her room at all?"

"Nope."

"And how often does this happen?"

"You've been together how long?"

"Almost six months."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"So now what? Have you tried going in there? Talking to her?"

"I've tried that before," Sam admits, remembering the days he used to spend hours talking to a door, completely unsure if you were listening to him at all. "You just got to let her work through it."

"So I'm just supposed to wait it out? Aren't you like a therapist or something? Shouldn't you know what to say or something?"

"A counselor actually, and no, I don't know what to say. Sometimes you just need to feel sad, there's nothing wrong with sitting in your feelings for a little bit."

"Three days isn't a little bit," Bucky objects.

"It could be less," Sam points out. "She's gone six months and she's a lot better about expressing negative emotions than she was a year or two ago."

"So why don't we go in there and just try talking to her?"

"Because we can't do that. She's just going to put on a brave face and tell us that she's fine. All that's going to do is force her to bottle everything up all over again."

"Okay, why don't I go in there?"

"FRIDAY locked everyone out either way."

"That's why there's a security override."

"Look," Sam interjects. "You can try, but don't beat yourself up if you can't cheer her up. And really think about what you're going to do when you get in there. It's not easy seeing her like that - trust me, and if she sees you having a hard time, she's just going to try and make you feel better."

"Okay," Bucky agrees. 

"So we're in agreement? We'll leave her alone until she comes out on her own terms."

"Oh, no. I'm going in there."

"We literally just talked about this," Sam states with an exasperation in his tone.

"I know, but I need to be there for her. I'm not going to give her a pep talk or try to make her feel better. I just want to be there. That's all."

"Oh," Sam frowns. "Well, that's actually - that's kinda sweet."

"Don't get used to it," Bucky interrupts, making a point to pull an extra solemn expression on his face. 

Sam rolls his eyes and continues waiting by the door as Bucky walks away with a murmuring of returning soon.

When Bucky returns almost an hour later, he brings several bags with him.

A paper bag with your favorite meal from that place down the street that he knows you love. Some quiet games that you can play in the sanctuary of your room if you feel up to it. Some candle that said it was supposed to make someone feel more at peace, he's not entirely sure about that one, but he figures that it can't really hurt. 

Though he can tell Sam is still hesitant about him going in there, he feels the strong urge to be there for you, even if he can't really help. He takes a breath and steels himself for whatever awaits him on the other side of the door. 

"FRIDAY, security override...Please."

"Voice identification required."

"Bucky Barnes."

"Access denied."

"James Barnes."

"Access denied."

"Winter Soldier?" he huffs in irritation. 

"Access denied."

"Damn you, Tony," he sighs. "Manchurian Candidate."

"Welcome, Manchurian Candidate."

He shakes his head as he hears the faint click of the lock. He slowly creaks open the door then walks into your dim room. The second he crosses the threshold, he can feel the heavy atmosphere. He can almost feel the sadness permeating the air.  

He sees you lying in your bed, almost completely still except for quiet, almost tear-filled breathing.

He sets the bags down on the entryway table, taking out everything he brought with him. He turns on the TV to ease the deafening, somber silence. He turns on your favorite movie, setting it to a low volume to serve as background noise. He lights the candle, grabs a water bottle from the fridge and picks up the bag of take-out. 

"Hey," he exhales, padding over to sit on the edge of your bed. "I brought you something to eat. It's your favorite, from down the street."

You open your mouth to murmur a thank you, but your throat is so constricted that only a broken exhale leaves your mouth. You take a breath, but the tears already burn at your eyes. You clench your jaw to keep them from streaming down your face, but you can feel your face warming with embarrassment. 

You hear him set the bag on the table, then quietly walk over to where you lie curled up on your bed. He crouches down to meet your eye-line. You avert your eyes, feeling the tears overwhelming you again. 

He doesn't say anything, instead wordlessly kicking his shoes off. He lifts up your thick comforter, though a chill enters your warm cocoon, it's replaced with his warmth as he climbs into bed right beside you.

"It's alright," he quietly offers, tightly holding you as sobs rack through your body. "It's okay."

His words unintentionally make the sobs worse.

You know what people want from you. They want the sunny, sweet disposition. They want someone who brightens the room, not who you are today. They don't want broken.

They don't want broken unless it glistens and reflects the best parts of themselves. No one wants jagged, razor sharp edges that will leave them with nothing more than painful cuts and innumerable regrets about getting close in the first place.  

You hold onto him with two shaky hands like he's your lifeline. And in some ways, he is. He's reeling you back in. Back to a place with hope and a promise for a better day tomorrow. 

"I'm sorry," you murmur as you're on the brink of sleep. 

"Don't be. Remember what you told me the first time I woke you after a nightmare?"

"Sorry is for suckers," you quietly chuckle, though your laugh is still marred by sadness.

"I'm here. Always," he promises, kissing the top of your head. 

The next morning, you're able to loosen the leash on your little black dog.

Today, you can let it go. 

Today, you can rejoin the family that did want you, the ones that showed you endless love and patience even when you felt like you didn't deserve it. You no longer felt the need to apologize for growing pains and missteps along the way. 

You're not quite sure how to hold yourself as you walk into the common room the next day for dinner. You can hear the sounds of jovial laughter and lively chatter ring throughout the room. With a deep breath, you cross the threshold. 

There is no awkward silence, no pause, or uncomfortable inquisition. You hear a few lively greetings and warm welcomes directed toward you as they continue grabbing from the large stack of pizza boxes, but otherwise there's no shift in the welcoming atmosphere. Despite your initial hesitance, in a few short minutes you're laughing and chattering along with the rest of your family. 

And just like that, your bad day doesn't feel so bad anymore. 

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series Masterlist

[buckmepapi]

NSFW ABC || Bucky Barnes

Got an exciting idea for a fic 

Going to be doing a NSFW ABC list for Bucky with links to each item mentioned so here is a taster -

The bolded lines are where the linked fics will go that offer a one shot or series based on the ABC drabble. There is already a fic linked in the example below ! woo!!!!

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Bucky hated his arm, but over time it slowly became his favourite body part because you were obsessed with it so much. You loved the way it looked, the damage it could do, the noises it made when he gripped the headboard above you. You loved how it choked you, how it held your hips, and how it felt inside your sweet little cunt.

Bucky loved everything about you, but he definitely was an ass man. He loved burying his face in your tits, but he loved burying his face in your ass just a bit more. The sight of you in leggings or small little tennis skirts sent him into overdrive, the way your plump soft ass cheeks would curve by your thighs, the way your walk would show him a glimpse under your skirt as you bounced with each step. He loved spreading your cheeks wide open as he licked flat strips against your puckered hole. The first time he had done had shocked you, it was the first time you had ever worn a tennis skirt. It was pastel pink and short, you paired it with white thigh high socks and he couldn't get over how fucking good you looked. You were stood by the kitchen counter making lunch he saw you, he nearly choked on his morning coffee as he sauntered out of the bedroom. He quickly abandoned his drink and snook over to you, he knelt on the kitchen tiles, lifted up your skirt and groaned when he saw you weren't wearing any panties.

"Bucky, what the hell are you doi-AH"

your whole upper body lurched forward onto the countertop of the cold surfaced as he spread your cheeks apart and ate you like a man starved.

"fuck baby. how do you taste so good everywhere?"

After that day, Bucky couldn't get enough of your ass. Smacking it in public and around friends, letting everyone know who's ass it was.

On his birthday you had surprised him with a cute heart shaped gem buttplug and red lingerie, he lost his mind that night and you were never the same.

[buckysfaveplum]

no day but today

chapter 1

summary: bucky finds himself enamored with the girl upstairs who paints on the fire escape.

pairing: bucky barnes x artist!female reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: i don’t think there’s anything really, but lmk if i missed something.

author’s note: soooo yay! first chapter! this is super short and i apologize, but they will get longer! anyway i hope you enjoy and are excited for my first series!

series masterlist

masterlist

12:46 am

He was tired. So tired. But sleep wasn’t something he was looking forward to. The nightmares had been relentless. Night after night of waking up in cold sweats and tears. It was getting old quickly. He’d tried to keep himself busy. However, there was never enough in the apartment to keep him up forever. Every night he was met with the same dilemma.

Bucky gazed around his vacant apartment. Steve may have left him, but he tried to leave him as well off as he could. He’d worked with the government to get his friend pardoned; on the condition of living in a government-subsidized apartment so they knew where he was and attending weekly therapy. His freedom seemed to come with the prison of not being trusted. Honestly, Bucky understood.

The walls were barren, the living room only consisting of a small couch and a tv, the bedroom full of boxes of things left behind by Steve. He never went through them. Couldn’t bring himself to deal with the fact that the last true piece of his former self abandoned him. The boxes sat alone in the dark collecting dust. Bucky felt the same. Sitting in his desolate apartment, alone, staring at the faded beige walls.

He’d only been in the apartment two weeks. Only seen his therapist twice. Two weeks since his friend left and he couldn’t seem to figure out how to keep going. He was maintaining. Treading water, barely keeping his head above the surface. Each nightmare felt as though it could drag him under. Two weeks and he couldn’t figure out why he was there. Why was he given a second chance? What was he supposed to do? How could he move on? How could he when he was alone? The irony of his feelings despite ignoring all of Sam’s attempts to reach out was not lost on him. Perhaps it was all he knew. Being alone, being on his own. All he could remember at least. 

12:46 am on a Saturday night, he sat on his floor staring out the large window across the room. Staring at the lights, the brick walls, the swirling iron of his fire escape. Brooklyn was supposed to be his home, but now it was just as foreign as everything else. At least he found familiarity in the rusting ladders up the sides of 100-year-old buildings.

Stretching his legs, Bucky hauled himself up from his daze. The closer he got to the window, the brighter the lights became and the more focused his view grew. His hands fiddled with the latch before sliding up the glass and peering out. He’d never been fond of the night. The darkness, the loneliness, the deafening silence of his apartment. But New York City was never silent, never dark. Slowly, he climbed out the window, stepping onto the platform outside.

The vibranium of his hand clinked loudly against the railing as he stabilized himself. The rush of cars and the bustle of people filled his ears. The loud chatter of friends down at the bar, the honking of taxis, the breeze of the soft wind. It was anything but quiet. It was comforting. Bucky settled himself, leaning back and resting against the ladder. Other than groceries and therapy, this was the only time he’d left the apartment. Technically it counted, right. He wasn’t inside.

He knew the isolation was bad, Dr. Raynor had already beaten him up about it. He didn’t care. What did she expect him to do? Go down to the bar and chat it up with random strangers? If his anxiety wasn’t holding him back, the death glares from shoppers at the market was. He didn’t need friends. Not anymore. Not after Steve.

He was fine.

His inner turmoil would’ve continued on forever were it not for the sudden thump on his head. Shocked, he stumbled up and looked around. Lying in front of him was a thick red paintbrush. 

“Oh god! I’m sorry!” The voice took him by surprise. 

Turning around, he looked up to see a woman leaning down from the platform above him. Her fire escape was littered with canvases, rags, jars of paint, and several brushes. Definitely in violation of the fire code. She smiled down at him, rambling on about something. He couldn't say what. He was too distracted, analyzing her appearance.

Sweats and a white tank top, as well as blue, fluffy socks. On top, a beige apron covered in paint splatters and scribbles, the pockets stuffed with pencils and more brushes. He watched as her hands flew around in excitement as she spoke. How her smile spread wide from ear to ear. Her laughing as she spoke was the only thing he could remember of what she said. His mouth was dry as he swallowed the lump in the back of his throat. He became stiff.

She was pretty.

Pretty in how she carried herself. How she spoke. How she smiled down at him. She was pretty.

“Did you hear me?” you asked. Bucky suddenly became aware of the fact he hadn’t been listening to a single word you said.

“No…no sorry what?” he asked nervously, forcing his eyes away from you. You just laughed softly at him, resting your arms down on the platform above him.

“You’re cute,” you said. He didn’t know what to say. He felt the heat rush to his face. He couldn’t see himself but he was sure he was tinted red. “You just move in? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yeah, I’m new,” Bucky said, finally looking back at you.

“Well, new guy, think you could hand me my brush?” 

Flustered, Bucky spun around, grabbing the forgotten paintbrush. Of course, that’s why you were talking to him. The brush. The brush you dropped on him. The brush he was currently keeping from you. A woman like you wasn’t interested in him. Just your paintbrush.

Quickly, he reached up, handing you the brush. He felt his gut drop as he realized he wasn’t wearing his gloves. He went white as he watched your flesh hand brush against his vibranium. As soon as the brush was out of his grasp, he yanked his arm back, hiding it as casually as he could behind his back. 

“Thanks,” you said, stashing the brush in your pocket. “So what’s got you out here tonight?”

“Just thinking I guess,” Bucky said, suddenly feeling exposed. As if a target were placed on his forehead. Exposed, vulnerable in front of this woman he didn’t even know. As if he wasn’t a century-old assassin. At that moment, he was at the head of the barrel and your hand was on the trigger.

“It’s a great place for that. I come out to paint when I can’t sleep,” you said, shoving your hands in your sweat pockets. He watched as you turned and threw rags through your window into your apartment. As you gently placed your jars of paint and water inside the window sill. Till just the canvases remained. 

“You don’t think it’s gonna rain tonight do you?” you asked, leaning down to him once again. 

“I...I don’t know,” he said, the words stuttering on his tongue. Your brows and nose scrunched together as you seemed to contemplate your question and his answer.

“Eh, should be fine leaving ‘em out,” you said, referencing your paintings. You whipped off your apron, draping it over the railing beside you. Bucky stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists. He should’ve gone inside, ended the conversation. But he found himself trapped in your orbit.

“Well, it was nice talking to you!” you said, quickly climbing into your window and out of his view.

He was stunned. Speechless. Bucky stood there for a moment, processing what just happened. He turned back to his view of the block. All the white noise of the city suddenly felt silent, quiet, and dull in comparison to your voice he’d been listening to seconds before. His mind was full of static. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember what he was thinking about before. All he could think of was paint and blue socks and kind eyes and a warm smile.

“Oh hey, I didn’t catch your name!”

He turned to see you hanging out your window, your brows raised waiting for his response.

“It’s uh…Bucky,” he said. God, why was he stuttering so much?

“I’m Y/N. Welcome to the building, Bucky.” 

With the slam of the window, you were gone. He was alone again. And for some reason he couldn’t explain, he wished he wasn’t.

----

an: okayyyy so i hope you like it! i know this chapter is super short, but they will be longer!

taglist:

@silentkiller2374